4,879 Miles Be Damned
by Stars Walk Backward
Summary: Lance Corporal Molly James-Dawes was on her third tour of Afghanistan when suddenly, it became unlike her other tours. Faced with a new kind of trauma and without Two Section to help her through... she could feel the Molly she had once been was fading fast. Then, comms arrive from Kenya, where a certain Captain is based, that set her world on fire... and back on track.
1. Chapter 1

_I know I know I know you all hate me... but this came to me when I was watching Series 2 of Our Girl and realising how shit it was without lovely, loveable Molly... and obviously more of Cpt. James. I personally lost all my shit at the tiny mentions of Molly in conversations the new S2 characters had with Cpt. James so I had to write about it. We deserve to have seem of the moments they've denied us._

 _MAJOR SPOILERS FROM POST SERIES 2 IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IT._

 _Any fellow Captain Dawsey shippers, please come and find me on my tumblr, goodgirlwhoshopeful, because it's pretty lonely. Our Girl shippers seem to have gone completely AWOL despite all the lovely fics on here from when Series 1 was around... I hope y'all come back._

 _I'm at university so I can't promise how regularly I can post to this but if reaction is strong it might spur me a little..._

 _Love and hugs._

 _X_

* * *

Lance Corporal Molly James-Dawes had known many things for certain as she began her third tour: one, that she was more content in life than she had ever been; two, that she good at her job… and three, that she was _lucky_ to be married to a man she could call her best friend.

What she hadn't realised until today was quite how she and her husband's connection had irreversibly changed in the weeks since they parted. Unforeseen circumstances left her trembling in her bunk in the woman's quarters at Camp Shorabak, (the new name given to Camp Bastion after it was handed over to the Afghan Army), tears barely remaining at bay as she attempted to converse with him as though she _wasn't_ beginning to fall apart.

"I miss you," she whispered down her satellite phone, such contact allowed in Afghan now that The British Army were no longer on the front line, simply based in medical and support roles instead. She is eternally grateful for it on days like today, when she'd seen children blinded by gas and girls with horrific injuries by men four times their age. Being able to hear the voice of her one support system in the world… was something that no army could put a price on, especially when he too was in a place of threat.

She'd done the maths over and over; there was no less than 4,879 miles between herself and her only love, her old boss… her best friend, Captain Charles James, or Charlie as she had grown to know him. In her nightmares though, the phone call came that every soldier's loved one grew to dread, only _she_ was not in the comforts of home like the other Army wives, but on tour too. In the pitch of the Afghan night, she would find herself running, breathless and panic-stricken, lungs seemingly painfully filled with grit and sand, attempting to chase down the 4,879 miles that stretched out between herself and Charlie. Her soul _screams_ out for him, hearing the phantom chokes and wails of his agony, sounds she knew came from real memories from her first tour, when she had pressed her fist in his abdomen to keep him from bleeding out beneath her… All this torment, only to wake to find it was all a cruel warped trick of the mind.

Staring at the canvas ceiling of her quarters, she would have a daily experience of being unable to draw air into her lungs, drenched in her body's own sweat, despite the number of times she would repeat to herself that it wasn't real. Charles was in _Africa_. Charles was providing _aid,_ not fighting. He was good at his job _._ Charles was alive. Charles was _safe_.

"Ditto, Dawsey," came his reply, bringing her back to the present with their catchphrase, that had long been theirs alone since she told him off for using it on their first tour of Afghan. She'd been nothing but an over-eager gobshite of a private under his charge back then, but the memory of that day, when they had finally admitted their hesitant forbidden feelings for one another, bounced around her nut, even after all this time.

It had been like any other day in Afghan… except it hadn't been at all.

The day before, the convoy had come across an object in the middle of the road and of course, as their CO, it had been Charles who had taken the dangerous role of approaching it for inspection. As the medic, Molly had been told to wait out for his confirmation before moving, holding her rifle up to keep an eye on him through the eyepiece… but of course she had disobeyed. By that point, she had been head over heels in love with the Boss. They had shared very few moments alone and hadn't even had the time much to even acknowledge them… but somehow they already both knew that their connection was irreversible.

Playing back the tiny, hesitant moments they had shared over and over in the dead of night – the trace of his thumb over her knuckles and her fingers as he held her wrist, staring into her eyes in the seclusion of her tent; his pinching of her Coco Pops and his wink when they sang that ridiculous bloody duet on music night – she would wonder if it could ever be possible that the Boss too returned such feelings. After all, he was handsome as fuck, _posh_ as anything and cultured… where she was cockney, _mouthy_ and rough around the edges as well as right through the middle!

Then, just she had had a slither of hope that love could overcome such obstacles, the boys had put her in the shit, spreading rumours about her and her long-term fellow private friend Smurf being an _item_ because she had gone to his hometown of Newport while they were on R &R back in England together. That had been all it was, of course, between her and Smurf. She hadn't had relations with him since her first week of Basic, when they'd met and got drunk and gone at it behind the Indian take away… but it appeared that the Boss had not seen things that way.

His sudden stoney silence hurt, and it was most likely meant to punish her… but it indirectly also gave her some comfort… because there was only _one_ reason men got a sulk on at the mention of other men, well she knew, and that was _jealousy_.

Therefore, there had been no way she could let the Boss walk out to his potential death without knowing for sure, every step he took away from her taunting her with images of his being blown into the air, so she had moved forward and taken cautious steps toward the suspicious road block, which could well blow them both to smithereens, because she knew she had to tell him, in case it did.

 _"Have you got a death wish?!" he'd demanded._

 _"Maybe," she'd said, though she managed not to add, 'if it means I save you'._

 _"Yeah, well, it's nice to have some quali'y time togeva'," she'd added, knowing that her platoon where out of earshot in the convoy, wondering what on earth she was doing._

 _"Is that why you're risking your neck?" he'd asked harshly, carrying on forward while cautiously listening out of IED's._

No, _she wanted to say._ No – I'm risking it for you.

 _Keeping one eye through the viewfinder on her weapon, she trained the other on the back of his head, barely managing the words. "Nothin' happened with Smurf – but at least now I know."_

 _"Know what?"_

 _"Well, I never thought you'd look at someone like me. I thought you were out of my league."_

 _He'd turned on his heel and paused, though not quite been able to look at her. "What you trying to say, Dawes?"_

 _That had made her nervous – more so, strangely, than being so close to what could have easily been the end of her life. Somehow though, she'd held her ground and not let his tone deter her. "I'm jus' sayin'…" Sometimes in life, all there was left was risk. "I'm fond of you, sir."_

 _He had turned back and it was all she could do to focus on the curls that peeped out from beneath his helmet against the back of his tanned neck. "And I wanted to tell you in case we get to that sheet and someone detonates it and we're blown to smithereens."_

 _"Well, let's continue this conversation when we're back at Brize Norton, shall we?"_

 _"Love's stronger than army regulations…" she'd tried softly, but she had known it was a long shot. If there was one thing Captain James was, it was a stickler for the rules._

 _"Nothing is stronger than army regulations!"_

 _The words had been harsh, as he'd no doubt intended them to be. The Boss had always been good at isolating his feelings from the task in hand. ('Do. Not. Get. In-fucking-volved!', as he always liked to scold her in the beginning.)_

 _She'd felt it then, as they moved but a foot or two from the sheet: the impending sense that that may have been the end… and it wasn't enough. What they had, the impasse they had reached… it wasn't enough! Not when the admission of actual, real love felt so close! It couldn't end there…_

 _So, with tears in her throat, she found herself saying words aloud that, in hindsight, sounded so despite that they made her grimace… but war was a context in and of its own._

 _"Do you love me?"_

He never got chance to answer, as Sahal, their moody Afghan Army Captain ally, had reached out for him, injured and bleeding beneath the sheet. His revelations about being beaten by the Taliban were followed by the dreadful news that they had done so… because he had refused to murder _Molly._

As the news sunk in straight from the horse's mouth, no one else had been in the hospital room but the three of them. The Boss' eyes had shone with an unspoken weakness and vulnerability she had never once seen from him before, his jaw slack and his throat bobbing with emotion, the whites his eyes shining with unshed tears.

Breaking almost every rule, he'd taken her face into his hands, cradling her and smoothing his thumbs over her cheeks to catch her own as they fell. At the time, she remembered wanting to physically _scream_ , to panic and run, the same way she had felt on her very first disaster of a patrol, when she'd cowered from bullets and heaved for air.

So no, it hadn't in fact been an ordinary day. The context was often forgotten, as the outcome seemed so normal, after that. Once she knew _he_ knew… it was as though her heart no longer cared or recalled the meaning of caution. The next day she had been eying him from where Two Section had been downing their scoff, unable to keep her focus on her conversation with Corporal Kinders. Charlie, then known to her simply as Bossman, had been gazing at her fifteen foot away, his hands on his hips in his usual authoritative stance, so she had given in and found an excuse to go over to him. His eyes seemed to call for her even from such a distance, wearing his trademark smirk, so she'd excused herself and marched over, thankfully far out of earshot of the rest of her Section as the words, " _I don't know how I keep my hands off you,"_ seemed to slip from her mouth without hindrance nor hesitation.

He'd grinned and dropped his head back a little as he laughed. Secretly, she was thrilled that she managed to make him laugh. His jaw had dropped and his tongue had popped into the inside of his cheek as he seemed to debate what to say. His eyes met hers and she could see the unsaid confessions lingering in his dark brown eyes… He had no idea, but her heart was pounding. _"Ditto."_

 _"Ditto?!"_ she'd cried. _"Ditto! I was expecting somethin' a li'le more romantic than bleedin' 'ditto'!"_

Despite the fact this marked the beginning of their secret code… it wasn't in fact her favourite memory.

She had several that played back on days like today – many more since marrying the bloody man, of course – but there was something about the fragility of those first few weeks, before things were known and out in the open, that left her weak at the knees with an incompatible sense of adoration for him: her kind, _gentle_ commanding officer who took off his stern mask of control… just for her.

He had first shown her such gentle, surprisingly soft hidden parts of himself the day she was to go home from Afghan on R&R for the first time. He had sent her off with one request which personified him to a T – to buy him coffee capsules from a _ponsey_ shop on Regent Street for his coffee machine, of all things! She had been in her civvies – a vest and short shorts – and from what she could remember, she had felt incredibly self conscious as her Boss, whom she had secretly lusted after only deep within her imagination by that point, had knocked on the nylon of the quarters. She could still remember how his eyes had been all warm and smiling in their usual confidence… but with something else lingering in them. Some sort of promise.

He'd taken her hand in his and begun to carefully scribe the name of the coffee he wanted on the skin of her forearm… only to not let go when he should have.

" _Go and buy me some 'Rosebaya' coffee capsules…" he had instructed softly as he knelt on one knee beside her bunk, smoothing the marker pen along her skin in his elegant hand. "…and I'll_ adore _you…for always."_

 _His eyes had caught hers upon this compliment and, of course, she'd risen to the bait._

 _"_ Always _, Sir?"_

 _Just like that, he'd let the soft chuckle on his lips die away and left his hand in hers, the hot pad of his thumb ghosting along her own upward until he reached the boney texture of her knuckles, as though touching her any less delicately would break whatever fragile tension hung between them. She'd struggled to breathe, as this had been the first time he had ever showed her explicit interest beyond their professional relationship._

 _His eyes had never left her face, as though he had already known this would happen and made up his mind. He was always so sure, her Bossman… her Charlie. He always knew what to say._

 _"Come back to me," he'd murmured then, as he had done many a time since, as though suddenly their separation as she went home to England was more dangerous than her being in an active war zone._

 _"I will… Don't worry,"_ is all she can say then – just as it was all she could say now. What else was there? After all, it was all luck, as he always liked to remind her. Luck…flook… _chance._

They'd been interrupted after that and he had leapt back from their interlinked fingers as though she had burned him, clearing his throat like the most quintessential Rupert before marching off for whatever duty he was needed for. Then, it had left her confused, but now, she appreciated the sheer magnitude of this memory.

Charles James was not at all one for letting rules slide, not even for one moment… So, the mere fact such a fragile moment of intimacy was allowed to take seed in such a volatile, frightening place… Well, it was quite something.

"What's got you so quiet, soldier?" came Charlie's enquiry in her ear, waking her from her consuming reverie. She only realised then that there are tears down her cheeks, silent but heavy, making her lips taste of salt. "It's not like my Molls to be so quiet."

"Jus' thinkin'," she mumbles pathetically, unsure how to even begin her explanation. _I'm in big trouble, Bossman… Trouble that will mess up the careers of both of us._

" _Dawsey_? _Thinking_?! Oh dear, time to call the court marshals!"

His joke falls on deaf ears, as the tension in her frame is too much to be overwritten. She knows he can tell, as he falls equally quiet for a long moment. She takes the opportunity to listen to his breathing, deep and steady in her ear. If she closes her eyes, she can just about picture his exact stance: sat in his isolated CO's quarters at his makeshift desk looking at the photograph of their little makeshift family: just the two of them and his little boy, Sam, whom she had grown to love like he was her own.

The key here was _like –_ he _isn't_ her own, so it was always much easier to enjoy his company. She doesn't _do_ kids; a life in her family's crowded flat in Newham, filled to the brim with her five siblings, had long taught her that! That and Sam was ten years old! He was hardly a baby… No, she certainly didn't do babies.

 _Oh, what was she going to do…_

"Molls… Please. What is it? _Please._ Talk to me."

She closes her eyes as more tears fell, cursing his ability to speak with such a tender softness. He was supposed to be an Army superior, for crying out loud! How was it _possible_ he could be both so bloody stern while also so _bloody_ caring?!

Wiping her eyes fiercely, she felt the need to hurry lighting adrenaline in her blood – irrationally convinced that someone could overhear her conversation any moment now… despite the fact she is sat on top of the shitter while everyone else slept, just as she used to do in the days of her first tour.

"Molly?"

His soft, near whisper of a prompt was making her emotions worse, as she could picture his big brown eyes, full to the brim with empathy and a tortured conscience, pleading with her to open up. She clenched her fists in her lap as her hands began to shake, the undeniable tide of panic and fear rising up her throat and rendering her speechless.

 _You can't tell him. You just can't._

"Did you really love me then?" she questioned suddenly, pushing back what she really had to say, unable to stop playing back that day on the dirt track. They had been approaching what could have easily been an explosive that would end their lives…but they had been _together…_ so, somehow, she hadn't felt nearly as scared as she did right now. "That day, when I badgered you up to that _bloody_ sheet despite the fact we could have easily got ourselves blown up – " Trying to ignore the way her breathing was uneven in her hysteria, she wiped her nose with West Ham sleeve. She thinks of his handsome face, all deep brown curls, heavy set brows and angular, tanned face from his last humanitarian mission, and it's enough to crumble the last of her resolve. _God in bleedin' hell fire,_ she _missed_ him. She wasn't used to love like this, all consuming and almost… _humid_ in its intensity, because up until Charles, she had never _really_ been loved properly – _romantically_ anyway. She knows that now. All those she'd been with prior to the miracle Captain James had been nothing more than quick, meaningless, less than satisfying shags. She is usually much better at burying all this until it was time to go home. After all, she had learnt from the best.

Today though, she knows she has no hope of getting her emotions in order… and she knows precisely why.

"Did you _really_?" Her words crack and she knew she was a mess, but was without hope of consolation now… not without Charlie.

"Oh, Molly!" His tone is enough to halt her breathing. "You _know_ I bloody did," he whispered, while she pretended momentarily that it didn't make her tears worse. " _God_ , I've loved you since that first day – remember? When you walked out for the Section photograph with your ridiculous big mouth, giggling like a schoolgirl over 'cockwombles' and I was an utter wanker for the rest of the week, making misogynistic remarks to kick you down a notch…when really it was because I was instantly put out by those cheeky eyes of yours… I thought you knew that!" He was always so quick to feed her such flowery words, despite the fact he knew she had a real struggle believing them.

"Alright, alright, I was just a–askin' if you laved me – no need to – " she attempts to rebuke croakily, though half-heartedly, her smile brittle and wobbly.

There's quiet between them again and she can hear the tussle in her ear as he moved about. "What is it, Dawsey?" he tries again, her military nickname feeling wrong on his tongue when they no longer worked together. Usually, she let him say it, but today, it brought back too much… Too much that she felt may be about to slip through her fingers.

"Please don't," she begged, trying to breathe. Even though she was out in the open air, the absolutely massive expanse of the Afghan sky stretched out over her, she suddenly felt as though she was surrounded by walls the were closing in. "That bloody name reminds me of them days when I was…"

"When you were what?" he prompts, forever eager to understand.

"Nofin' to you."

Such words were a confession in and of themselves, as she was pretty sure she had never actually said them aloud to him before, never voicing the way that she had felt so inferior and insignificant in the shadow of one of the army's 'finest young Officers'.

"Never!" He sounded outraged and she instantly felt herself cringe. Why couldn't she just be the women a man like that _needed_ her to be?! What kind of a Captain's wife _was_ she? Forever disappointing him… "Molly, _Jesus!_ You were _never_ nothing!" She could practically _see_ the trademark frown that made a deep 'T' furrow on his brow. "Not for one _moment!_ Where the fuck is this coming from?! Besides – it's no different than you still calling me Bossman all the bloody time!"

She would have laughed and scoffed and made a half-hearted self deprecating comment, had she been herself… but today, her heart doesn't even leap at such a romantic confession… but seemed to weep all the more for it.

There was over _four thousand miles_ between them… and it felt like eternity.

She bit back a sound of panic and burrowed her face into her forearm in the hope she could physically push the sound back. _"Charlie…"_ His name was a whimper from her lips, fragmented and almost childlike.

He suddenly sighs, evidently hearing her near-silent distress. "Molly! _Calm_ _down_. Calm down and tell me. Is everyone treating you alright over there?"

The watery, teary smile she wore could be seen by no one, but ever since she had gotten sweet on him three years ago, she had found herself unable to control her reactions around him. His sweet, husbandly concern made such an expression automatic. Until, of course, she remembered why she was crying… and then it seemed impossible for any form of happiness to remain.

Things were not okay. They hadn't been throughout this tour… It may only be a four month stint to get through, but it felt like an for- _bleedin'_ -ever. She was away from her Section – no longer allowed to work with them now that the CO in charge of them was her husband – but, more than that, she was away from her _family_. Two Section, all the lads; Brains, Fingers, Mansfield…Charlie… _they_ were her family – (not that she could ever tell mum or dad that!).

"Yeah…" she lied, trailing until she realised that she had promised herself after their grey, uneven beginnings to _never_ lie to him, so she added a meek: _"Mostly."_

 _"Mostly?!"_ he echoed. Instantly, she felt the tension in him, as though feeling it telepathically. "Sweetheart, what on earth does _that_ mean?"

"It don't gotta mean nothin', Charles – was just sayin'! You know how boys can be when there's a new woman about."

Well _did_ Charles know such things. Lords knew he himself had played a part in such grimace-worthy assumptions based on gender in the not too distant past, calling Molly their 'token _Doris'_ in front of the whole section when she had first arrived and making comments about her needing to change from her Stilettos. In the army, men answered to men who had earned their respect… and women had to work all the harder for it.

It was as it was, though that did not make it right, and it was through loving Molly that Charles was able to realise the clear prejudice that existed within the 'bad apples' in the armed forces, whom sneered and teased and sexualised their female colleagues and all in the name of normality. The very _idea_ that such a thing was happening to his Molly… Well, it left his twitching for his weapon.

Charlie could always tell when Molly was avoiding the truth… but today she remembered the fact a moment too late… For a start, she _never_ called him Charles.

"Yes," he replied, his voice no longer soft. "I do." She could tell by the way he now spoke that he was pacing. "I _do_ , which is why your waterworks are ever so slightly _terrifying me._ What's happened?"

"Naffink," she denied – though far, _far_ too quickly. _Shit,_ she thought. _Now I'm done for._ "No, naffink!"

"Please don't hide things from me, Molly," he whispered desperately, his tone quiet and soft but with a hint of the stern manner needed when one was a Captain. She felt the urge to confess all to him instantly, to tell him all that kept her up at night… all that very nearly had her running to him every single day now.

"I'm not lyin'," she managed back, though barely.

"God _damn it,_ Molly, I know when you're holding out on me!" His tone lost it's patience and suddenly he sounded like the weary Bossman she remembered all over again.

She was shaking now, because it all came back; her inability to open up, her first tour as a mentor where she'd been wracked by horrendous PTSD from her previous and very first tour in the army and had no friends to turn to; all that time ago that she lead on poor, sweet Smurf instead of being honest, instead of telling him straight away that she could never love him… not when she loved The Boss. The stress of the latter got to him, ultimately leading to his erratic behaviour on the battlefield…then his death.

There was no one to blame but the two of them for that. Her and The Bossman, they were the two people he confessed to loving the most in the whole world… and they therefore broke his heart… There was nothing else to blame but them. Apart from the bleed in his head, perhaps.

' _Look, Molly." His Welsh accent was always so bloody friendly. "I'm not stupid! I know you said you didn't want to go out with anyone from the platoon – "_

 _" – No, Smurf! I don't want to go out with_ you _!"_

 _"Dawes."_ He was trying different tactics now, dragging her from her guilt fuelled flashbacks and almost making her smile as he was putting on his sternest 'Captain James' voice and adopting the name the Army still often used for her… despite the fact her name had not been Dawes for many months now.

Meekly, she shook her head and stared into the darkness, feeling as though her mind was truly going round and round in circles.

"'ow _can_ you love me after what I did?"

She was changing the subject, but she had to know. It had been a question that had gnawed at her for days on end at first, in the days after Smurf collapsed to the ground at the centre of the West Ham pitch and never got back up.

"Did _what?_ Molly, my love, I don't – "

She could practically see her husband shaking his head as she heard him heavy gasp and sigh down the phone, becoming utterly frustrated that he couldn't take her by her shoulders and shake her, probably. She felt shame rolling from her in waves into the quiet, peaceful stillness of the night air and it was then that she realised she wasn't breathing – oxygen replaced with ragged sobs.

"Please don't be ashamed of me," she wept in a whisper. "I know I tend to fuck things up… but I don't mean it. I swear – "

Now, she barely heard his reassurances, or how they were interspersed with barks of ' _Not now,_ Mansfield!' away from the handset. She wanted to laugh, shout hello to her old platoon and be the Molly that they had once known… but today, it felt as though she was long gone; buried beneath all the shattered bones she had strapped and the myriad of blood on her hands. _"Molly James-Dawes."_ Suddenly his voice was willed with the fever that she loved so much, the passion that made her fall for him in the first place. "You best tell me what's going on _right now_ before I jump in the nearest helicopter, get over to you in Afghan and _spank_ it out of you, is that _understood?"_

He sounded just like he had her first tour, almost to the word – obviously minus the spanking part. He had a thing about sulking when he couldn't get his way and she had always loved to tease him for it… but now she wished nothing more than for him to suddenly grow a layer of nonchalance, to not care so she wouldn't have to keep on… covering up.

 _If I tell you… all hell will break fucking loose!_

Opening her mouth, her lips shook and her breath trembled along with them, as though the power of the words in her throat were too much for her body to even contend with.

If she said these words, told the truth, it would all be over… and a whole new tidal wave of _shit_ would hit not just _her_ life, her career, but that of Charlie too… and therefore, collaterally, that of Sam's. She _couldn't_ do that – _wouldn't –_ she had long decided. She _wouldn't_ hold her husband back again – not after all but getting him shot and then only _just_ convincing him not to give up his commission.

Charles was many things… but he also belonged in the army. To have one without the other would be to strip his soul from him…and she would _not_ be responsible for that. She would _not_ be like Rebecca.

So, she did what any soldier worth their salt would do… and disobeyed.

"Really, it's nothing," she choked hastily, trying to sound as though she were clearing her nose and therefore dismissing her tears. "Just being a silly – y'know me when things get on my nut." Through gritted teeth, she swallowed the lie down with the salt of her tears. "I gotta' go – these buggers might gonna need me to save their boney arses tomorrow!"

"Molly James – are you crying?"

 _No shit, Sherlock,_ the usual Molly would have said. Today though, she could say nothing.

"Please don't. _Please_." Closing her eyes, she could see him in his desert camo, like a second skin on him, all tanned and zero-body-fat, eyes looking up at her all round and pleading, (half resembling the puppies Molly used to will she could rescue from Pets At Home as a kid). "When you cry… It's like…we're back at that mountain pass – " The moment he said it, all she could see with sheets of dust, choking her now as it did then. Oblivious to her fractious, trigger-happy memories as they assaulted her, he was still talking. " – and you're running off like the bloody hero you always have to be – even when it's fucking _stupid_ – crawling through that minefield to get to Smurf – "

She scoffed at the memory of her friend and his trigger-happy habits of wondering away from the rest of the Section. " – _Bloody Smurf."_

" – and it's like I'm still there watching you crawling on your hands and knees and my whole _heart_ is in my mouth because I can't help you…all because of my bloody _station."_

She doesn't remember much of that herself, other than she woken up ten metres from where she felt her foot nudge the old, buried Russian explosive. When had she come to, coughing on a cloud of thick desert dust and couldn't see past her own nose, it had been him, Captain James her CO, that filled her senses, yelling at her down the radio in the way every Officer would when recovering his men.

' _Dawes! Can you hear me, Dawes?! Come in Dawes! Dawes!'_

" _I_ had to go in," she defended weakly, sniffing hard. "I was the _medic_ and the poor bleedin' sheep shagger had only done gone got a bullet in his groin!" She thought of the alternative – _her_ Bossman going in instead – and felt sick at the thought.

"That's beside the point – I – " She heard him sigh, heavy and telling of the expanse of his chest. "You got us off track, Dawsey. How do you _always_ manage that?" For a moment, there's a saucy tone to his voice as he hinted at all the times she liked to distract him with… 'unsavoury activities' – or whatever bloody shite he called sex – a deep, rumbling promise, and it sets her blood alight with a repressed, animalistic desire for him, for his contact, for his sheer _presence_.

"It's like I'm there again," he continued, "helplessly watching you crawl in a bed of explosives and then there's this _boom_ and I have to watch you get thrown through the air again and I can't do _anything_ – "

The memories suddenly shutter her vision.

' _Dawes!' someone screams into her ear – the radio is screeching and hissing. Everything hurt, like a dull ache… but mostly the high pitch squeal in her ears. She can barely hear… What was that?_

 _'Dawes, speak to me!'_

 _The Captain – why could she hear the Captain? Wasn't she_ dead _?! Bleedin' hell, he'd only followed her into the afterlife… Perhaps heaven did exist, maybe._

 _'Dawes!'_

 _Sitting up, she comes to the rather dazzling realisation that she's_ not _dead – that the sky she can only just make out through the dust is the Afghan sky! She expects feel her the worst, she finds she has her legs. She didn't get blown into pieces! And not an ounce of blood spilled! Opening her mouth, filled with dust and leaving her heaving for breath, she fights with everything she has to speak – so his cries, sweet Bossman's anguish, can seise._

 _'I'm alright! I'm alright, Boss!' She hears them then, her mouthy platoon, whooping down the radio. 'I can't believe I still have my legs!'_

She could tell by how he paused that he was visually reliving it too.

"Having to listen to you cry…sort of feels like that," he wheezed, leaving her without words. "I know it doesn't make much sense, since one involves, you know, _death,_ but – "

" – Yeah, yeah, alright," she dismissed roughly. "I ain't soft like you, Jamesey, but I fink I can get the jist!" It sounded brusque but really it was self preservation, because she knew that if he carried on like that she would never get her composure back. As she wiped her eyes over and over, her nasal passage well and truly congested. Taking a breath, she felt her chest wheeze of its own accord, sounding like a long, near-silent sob. When she spoke next, the strength and humour in her voice had been replaced with a quiet plea. "Enough wiv' the soppy shit please, Jamesey."

She could hear that he was dissatisfied with her excuses, but predicted he was also exhausted, because his reluctance was not forceful anymore as he replied.

"Forgive me if I might gonna not believe you, Dawsey." There was a slight humour in his voice at her bad grammar – which by now she _knew_ was bad, but she used it to make him smile. "Because my Molly doesn't cry much."

Still to this day, having him talk about her with such a title left her tingly all over.

He sighed, seeming to drop this battle. "Double away and try to get some shut eye, okay? It sounds like you're exhausted." Suddenly, she could here a cheeky grin return to his voice. "I have no doubt you might gonna need to save the odd sleeping AA or two before you're done, so you'll need all the energy you can get."

She managed a smile, remembering the times they would go on patrol on her first tour, only to find said Afghan Army lounging at their posts, playing cards and sometimes even sleeping. She had asked him then what they would do, once the Western allied forces left them to fend for themselves… Well, it was only now that the very surface of the answer to such a question was beginning to emerge.

Such a thought meant that the memory suddenly shifted. Suddenly, it wasn't a happy one she could see in her mind, but a poisonous one, just like all the others, dissolving into hazed memories of her ID-ing half of those same AA men's corpses, including sweet young Rolex boy – as she had named him because of his American rip off watch – after they had been ambushed by the Taliban. They had been strewn across the dirt path, shot at point blank range… None of them had even stood a chance.

"I worry about you, Molly," came Charlie's soft confession then, thankfully pulling her from the morbid memory. "I mean, I worry _anyway_ , in the husband-who-can't-shut-up-about-his-wife kind of way," he continued, rambling slightly. "Elvis keeps having a go at me for it, actually."

That made her smile, because how _couldn't_ it? The idea that her Bossman was no longer one hundred and ten per cent professional one hundred per cent of the time and _all_ because of _her_ left her feeling smug as anything. She pictured him running a hand through his perfectly parted hair, threading through the tangle of cropped army-regulation curls. "But… lately, I'm worried differently."

The normal Molly would have been outraged and offended at the inference that her husband was worried for her, at the idea that she _needed_ worrying about… but today, she felt numb to such stubborn independence. Today, she felt herself pining so hard that she was ashamed of herself. Today, she felt like no _soldier._

He carried on, oblivious to her shame. "I feel like you're drifting away, Molls, and that makes me _shit scared_ because I _know_ how wonderful life can be now I have you. You and Sam, remember? When we get home, we still need to take him to Cadbury World and gorge ourselves on all the chocolate we can – once we get out of bloody fitness dietary recommendations… Yeah? Please focus on that."

 _Home._ Once, East Ham had been home, stuck in a tiny flat with her gobby sister and loud, screaming baby brother and a mother who was half way between the two… Home wasn't where Charlie grew up either, in the echoing, four storey mansion of Royal Crescent in Bath. While it held many happy memories; their first date… their first and most _mind-blowing_ sex session… it wasn't home. It place stood too much as a pillar of their differences in Molly's eyes, no matter how bloody breath-taking it was. She felt like a bee in a hornet's nest in that kind of house while her _own_ flesh and blood could barely breath in a two bedroom flat.

No. These days, home was simply wherever Charlie was… though she had never told him as much. With a face as handsome as his, he hardly needed the ego boost!

"I'll try," she managed to agree, attempting multiple times to clear her throat and failing.

" _I_ need you, Molly. The Army bloody well needs you too, but forget them for a second." She hiccuped in her teary haze, teetering on the edge whenever she listened to his determination. " _I_ need you. _I_ do – for always – so please, _please_ look after yourself."

In her mind, she pictured stroking his face and pushing her hands into her hair the way she _knew_ he loved, hidden away the privacy of their homely Bath flat where no Army regulations or international wars could reach them.

"I love you, Bossman." She used his nickname to avoid having to say it, his real name, which barely passed her lips as it was but _never_ passed her lips on tour. It was as though saying it made the hole in her chest that yearned for him all the bigger, as though her body called for him every time she managed to say it.

She heard his breathes attempt at a chuckle, because they had had many a disagreement over what they called one another, but thankfully he let it go.

"Ditto, Dawsey." Her felt her face contorting into surpassed sob as she faced the reality that he had to go… As did she. Thankfully, he didn't sound unaffected either, as he cleared his throat in his usual 'I am a man' way and sniffed once or twice.

But then, he surprised her.

"I can't breathe without loving you."

She swallowed hard at his declaration, having to bite down on her lip with such strength that she could suddenly taste the tang of blood. "Ditto." The word was a croak at best, but she could tell by his laugh that he heard it.

She swallowed hard at his declaration, having to bite down on her lip with such strength that she could suddenly taste the tang of blood. "Ditto." The word was a croak at best, but she could tell by his laugh that he heard it.

"You don't think enough of yourself – you never have. I'm _so_ proud of you, of everything you've done – of going out there and being brilliant, like I told you to be! When will you get that through you _wooden_ skull?!"

Huffing a laugh at his utter inability to see how _bias_ he was, she couldn't help but run her mouth: "Bleedin' _hell_ , Bossman! Don't let the lads 'ear you talkin' all soft!"

There was another moment of silence, as heavy as the last, before he suddenly laughed. "There's only one person to blame for my softness!" he added, candidly. "And she's mouthy and cockney and has a frightening obsession with Coco Pops!"

"Yeah, yeah – blame me! Y'secret's sake, you girly _git_!" She had to hold the phone away from her mouth while she gasped for air, forcing the sense of humour and false cheeriness up from the depths of her abilities of deception, her emotions making her throat seem to swell. Despite her attempts to be nonchalant, her voice continued to rise in pitch against her will. Swallowing hard, she knew it was time. "I really should go. I have to be up at 04:30. Speak soon, okay?"

On the other end of the time, she heard him yawn. "Of course," he said, though his voice remained terse and quiet, as though slightly suspicious. "I expect to hear all about it when you save the next lot of boney arses!" She swallowed back the paranoia that swamped her that he knew what she was holding back…that he knew that a mess she had gotten herself into. "Stay focused," he ordered. His soft, rounded _posh-boy_ vowels washed over her in a rare moment of serenity. She was still unable to still still with the panic and fear in her veins, but when Charlie spoke to her like that, with a tenderness and a constant concern, she never felt more at home… just for those few seconds. His catchphrase was one of her favourite things. "Stay alert. Stay _alive_."

"Speak for yourself, Bossman!"

She managed a tiny sound of humour, though it was a hair's breadth away from dissolving into another kind of emotion all together. She looked up at her favourite thing about tour, the blanket of countless stars, and she wondered absentmindedly if he was looking at them too.

"Molls?"

Her name filled the melancholy quiet like a lullaby, making Molly wish it were like any other day, because it had been, it would have sent her into a lull of wonderful dreams, in a world where she was her old self again… and her hands had never known the blood of her loved ones.

"Yeah?"

As he repeated the words that lit their romance all that time ago – a silent reminder to look after herself for his sake if not her own – it struck her once again that he might just be psychic. Somehow, Captain Charles James always seemed to know what to say.

"Come back to me."

She would, she vowed, as she did the first time and every time since…

Days later though, she realised it should have been _her_ demanding such a thing of him, typical reckless heroic _nonce_ that he could be, as her Corporal awoke her with the kind of news that, had she been a weaker person, would have stopped her heart.

 _"I'm sorry for the intrusion, Dawes, but… We've had comms from our aid work in Kenya."_

It was as though the world had ripped out her lungs with a few simple words.

 _"I'm sorry, but…it's your husband, Dawesy. He's been taken."_


	2. Chapter 2

I am so honoured by all the reviews that sprang up on my first chapter! After all this time, I really didn't think so many people who shipped Captain Dawsey would still be out there, so this is so very reassuring for me!

Here's Chapter Two - been worked on in between my assignments, so apologies for any errors.

THANK YOU

 _X_

 _Disclaimer: All rights reserved BBC and Tony Grounds ©_

This chapter contains themes that some people may find distressing.

* * *

 **II**

Molly could never quite remember getting back to her quarters after that.

She managed, just about, to keep herself together in front of Major Beck – but _only_ just. As she hurried from the Opps tent, her feet kicked up the Afghan dust, the equivalent of forty fags a day on the lungs, as she stumbled unseeing through her glassy eyes in desperate need of seclusion. She could feel her pulse roaring in her ears, drowning out all the commotion of the camp entirely. She had to keep herself breathing deeply, in through the nose and out through the mouth, as she could feel the urge to reverse the contents of her stomach up over her boots was but one slip of concentration away. The heat of the day was long past, thankfully, but still she felt an alien sensation of sweat on her brow and down the back of her neck, despite the shadow of the sunset across the camp. Her nut was screaming only one thing, and that was the name of the man who was once her Captain, now her world, as she fell into some kind of trance.

When her superiors had _first_ told her of the news, she had been anything but trance-like. She had frowned and wanted to laugh, expecting that any moment Charlie himself would leap out from behind the canvas of the Opps tent, grinning in his hypnotically confident way before cracking up with: _'You really think you could get rid of me as easily as that, Dawsey?!'._

But, her confident, smug husband never did appear… and as each second ticked by, it became painfully clear that she may never see that smile again.

 _"How?"_ she'd demanded instantly, falling by default into professional, detached pragmatic questioning as she knew he would. "How did it – ?" Her voice had broken against her will and she had squeezed her fist at her side in inward fury. She never was good at detachment.

"He and Lance Corporal Lane were at the refugee camp at the Somali border. There was contact with the various armed Al Shabbaab who reside there amongst the general refugee population. Two Section were escorting the ambulance after the fact when one of the Rover got roadblocked. The ambulance was ambushed and Captain James moved in without hesitation on foot in an attempt to neutralise the situation. They captured them both and Two Section were unable to pursue fast enough because the group had blocked the surrounding routes."

With every word foretold, Molly felt irrational, venomous _anger_ begin to bubble to the surface, her skin feeling as though it might look red as a tomato. That _bleedin'_ man and his _bleedin'_ heroics!

"He could never have pursued on foot without back up, but I think we can assume he did so in desperation and care for his medic – "

A lump rose in her throat that was so large it made her entire throat ache. " – Y'don't have to tell _me_ about Captain James' tendency to be a hero, sir."

Major Beck, a kindly looking but very large man, gave her a knowing look that was also heavy with sympathy because they all knew precisely what she meant. He had been the Major in charge on her first tour, a superior of both herself and Charlie back in the days when they began their covert romantic relationship – though he hadn't known so, obviously. Charlie gave up his commission after that tour for a while: the Army never really accepted it; said he was far too promising a young captain to quit so early on and for 'no real reason'. What they didn't know then, of course, was that Charlie primarily gave up his commission as a Captain so that there would no longer be a mountain of protocols and regulations keeping them apart and making their relationship forbidden.

Simply put, he was sacrificing the rest of his career so that she could build hers.

They managed to keep their romance secret until long after Molly's first deployment training Afghan medics, even for a short while once Charles started up his Army career at Brize again.

When she returned the first time however, she had known that she had no choice but to go to him, as her body and mind yearned for him after eight weeks away. It had been incredibly alien to be out in Afghan without him. Meanwhile, Charlie had been attending rehabilitation for his bullet shattered leg. When she had arrived back at his parents house in Royal Crescent, she could still recall precisely how he looked, as he'd opened the door wearing a surprised, delighted expression and his beloved gardening gloves. The moment he had closed the door behind them, she had pushed him up against it, all reservations she had gathered on the train ride up in her nervous, fragged brain forgotten.

They had spent the following three days locked up in the empty house, lost in a haze of love making and laughter that was incomparable with any other happiness she had ever experienced before.

It was also that weekend that he asked her to marry him.

That had thrown a spanner in the works a bit to put it lightly, as once they had told their families, word had spread like wildfire. Everywhere Molly James-Dawes went in the Army these days, tales of the young private on her first tour who managed to snag her public-school-Rupert of a CO were never far behind. Not that she minded – she was long past minding. Life with Charlie was worth any gossip or badgering that she might get from the lads in her new platoon. It had even been worth the look of utter disbelief, slight disappointment and suppressed amusement she had received from Major Beck when they had told him.

"It goes without saying that you will be updated you as and when we receive comms," the Major replied instantly. Though his tone did bring her out of her memories, it did little to calm her heart. "Obviously, you are to be offered immediate emergency compassionate leave – "

His words were interrupted by the entrance of another man into the tent. He was tall and slightly lean but incredibly strong with a head of hair so blonde it looked as though he could have been Hitler's dream Arian child. He nearly always wore a look of contentment that hid his inward, disgusting arrogance and raging misogyny. He was her Commanding Officer, Captain Lawson.

At the sight of him, she felt panic set into her a blood – the very kind of panic that she had been feeling the last few days. Her wrists itched from where his hands had held them down; her throat dry as she began to feel the need to heave. Suddenly, it was as though the news of her husband's disappearance faded completely from her memory, just for a second, as her human insinuating to _fucking run_ took over.

"Sorry, sir," came the deep Scottish voice that now made the hair on her neck stand on end in the worst way. "I was needed up on watch. What have I missed?"

By now, her hands were shaking beneath the desk where she'd been asked to sit down – (no soldier was _ever_ asked to sit down) – her senses filled with every trance of the latest arrival into the room, screaming for her to run from _His_ presence.

This wasn't paranoia, this was pure, unadulterated _fear_ that no Taliban could stoke in her blood quite the same _._

Instantly, she felt weighed down with regret that her last conversation with Charles had been dominated by the latest demon to shadow her mental state…followed by guilt that she had chosen to keep the truth from him. She _should_ have told him. She should have told _anyone,_ not be sitting in the man's presence has though _He_ hadn't tried to –

No. She couldn't even _think_ the words.

"I was just updated James on the latest news about her husband, Captain Lawson," the Major continued, _completely_ oblivious to Molly's internal feverish distress at the entrance of their colleague. "It is of course fine with you that she take immediate compassionate leave – ?"

" – That's it?!" She hadn't meant to interrupt, God knew it was one of the golden 'don't' rules in the Army, not to mention that the words came louder and harsher than intended, but she couldn't bring herself to regret it in that moment.

She couldn't quite believe it – they were going to send her _home? Home_ to the boring, mind-numbing nothingness of East Ham, or _Bath_ even, where everything would make her think of her Section who _needed_ her and the man she loved, who could be dying in the dust somewhere, all alone and shit-scared.

No, she _couldn't_ go anywhere… Not even when Captain Lawson had assaulted her in the black of night the night before.

She should say something, telling _someone…_ but, at this moment, there was only thing that was important in her entire universe…and that was getting Charlie back alive.

She knew what had to happen now.

"All due respect, sir, I can't leave – Two Section are gonna' need a medic." Swallowing hard, she tried not to picture worst case scenarios in her mind, but they seemed to wallpaper entirely over her ability to be rational.

"Indeed they do – they've requested a temporary medic who should be flying out tomorrow –"

Instantly, the words were out. "Let me go, sir! – "

Captain Lawson's eyebrows rose. " – Surely you're joking, James?"

Temporarily, she was paralysed by the use of her real last name from his mouth, making her feel nauseous. No one used it in the lower ranks other than on paperwork, mostly because she still introduced herself as Molly or Dawsey – that way, she could at least hope to make a slight connection with people _before_ they put two and two together about who she was.

"No, sir!" she urged as politely as possible. "Y'need someone who knows the section back to front and that's me!" Clearing her throat, she pushed all traces of emotion far, far away. _C'mon, Molly. Channel the bloody Bossman's stern-face. Don't get all girly now._ "They'll be panicked and fragmented without their Captain, sir, and they know me – and I'm only six hours away! We're swimmin' in medics here, sir – "

 _Let me go so I can save my love… and get away from Him._

"Lance Corporal James – that would be highly irregular!" the Major intercepted rigidly, leaving Molly with a heavy, frustrated feeling in her chest.

"But sir!" she protested. Now she had thought about it, she had absolutely nothing to lose, ignoring her _so-called_ Captain entirely. "You see how many medic trainers we have here now. My lot, they're well good, they can cope! _Please,_ sir." She was looking the faces of the men, cast with uncertainty and disbelief, and felt a slight tremor of fear in her frame as she felt a certain pair of eyes looking over her like those of a predator. "Speaking frankly, I just… I _need_ feel like I'm _doin'_ something. I ain't gonna be able to just sit 'nd wait for news, sir."

The Major didn't look at all persuaded, but Captain Lawson was parade a fake look of thoughtfulness. Molly _knew_ by his tone he was simply _pretending_ to agree with her, so he'd _look_ like the caring, supportive CO that he should be.

"I suppose, without Captain James in fact present at the camp, her presence breaks no regs, sir – "

" – Captain!" the Major berated as he began to concede before turning back to Molly with a look of conflict on his face. "It simply _cannot_ happen, James. Not only is it against all regulations, it would be a _massive_ conflict of interest for you to be the acting medic when it is your _husband_ who is captive – "

Closing her eyes, she felt her stomach sink even further. _So this was it, then._ She instantly had to swallow repeatedly to keep the massive threat of tears from boiling over. _This was it._ She was going to be stuck here, stuck here with _Him,_ Her Captain who had touched her without her permission, while the love of her life, her _Charles,_ could die, any second, in dirt and squalor.

"Understood, sir," was all she could say, barely breathing through her clenched teeth. "Please let me know… if you hear… "

"Of course, James."

Thankfully, Major Beck began speaking to Captain Lawrence, meaning Molly could slip away without fear of Lawrence accosting her with his wondering hands the moment she left the tent.

From there, she had stumbled, dumb and feeling almost detached from her body, to her pit in the women's quarters: the one place the Captain could not get to her.

Everyone was working or busy eating their scoff, so there was no one else in the tent. It was only here, finally, that she could collapse…and when the tears came, they came both like a flood, but also like a vacuum. They soaked her face until they then began to created puddles on her t-shirt and still they kept coming. They sucked out all other aspects of her immediate reality, leaving her with nothing but all-consuming panic and despair, with no sense of where normality and sanity began.

She could _not_ lose Charlie. She could lose everything…but couldn't lose him _._

She had never seen herself as one of those women who relied on anyone – she had never replied on her family even – never mind relying on a man… but somehow, her happiness and entire _existence_ seemed to be entirely tangled with the assurance that Charles would always be with her, alive and smiling and happy.

So, the very idea that he might not…left her in the grips of a frightful panic attack.

"Molly?!"

Suddenly, Jackie was at her side; her old friend from her very first tour, back when Bastion was a massive expanse of a camp and she was still learning the ropes. Jackie was from Yorkshire, up north somewhere that Molly had never been, and as kind as every northern stereotype said and then some. She had come back to Afghan to train medics too, so it had been a wonderful surprise for Molly when she first arrived to find one familiar face.

In the haze of her panic, she was only partially aware of her body being moved, her head being pushed between her knees where she rocked at the edge of her bed. Her mouth filled with the taste of salt as tear after tear fell down her face until her cheeks were wet to the touch.

"Molly. Breathe. In through the nose, remember?"

She wasn't aware she was wailing low in her throat until Jackie pulled her against her chest and began shushing her repeatedly, smoothing her hair like her mum would do when they were cuddled up in her bed together.

"He's gone, Jackie!" she wept inconsolably. "They've bloody got 'im and they're gonna torture him and I'm never gonna see 'im again!"

"Molly, slow down! _Who?_ What's wrong?!"

Her hands suddenly felt warm, too warm. When she looked down at them, she could have sworn they were covered in hot, sticky texture of the Bossman's blood. Suddenly, she was back there again, on the bridge, holding her beloved's life in her hands as she pressed her hand in his abdomen.

All that fight…only for him to die at the hands of a cruel stranger in the desert.

"Bossman!" she answered in a wail, curling into herself as she barely dragged in another breath. "Al Shabaab… _took him…"_

"What? Captain James?!"

Molly flinched at the sound of his name and another wail escaped her. She would have cringed at the weakness of the sound, had she been able to process anything other than all-consuming grief.

"Oh, God – Molly! I'm so sorry – "

" – They'll… _behead_ him… They'll find out he's a soldier…and _behead him!"_

Suddenly, cold swept over her and it took her a long moment to realise her friend had poured cool water over her head, leaving her feverish skin feeling slightly refreshed and shocked her out of her fog a little.

"Molls, you don't know that," she tried to assure as she cradled her friend with a grim expression. "Special Forces will be on it already."

"But, I do, Jackie!" she cried, blinded by her misery. "You know as well as I do that them terrorist groups show the most cruelty to anyone who is military. They – " Before she even said the word, she was wheezing, " – _torture_ soldiers and they fucking cut their _heads_ off and they video it and put it on the internet – _Oh bloody Nora,_ I'm gonna be sick!"

Instantly, she doubled onto her side in an attempt not to vomit on her feet. Jackie managed to get a sick bag from her med-pack in time before she was sick all over herself. Images flashed unwelcome in her mind as she stared down at her feet, sparks and dark spots dancing across her vision as she attempted to draw in enough oxygen not to pass out.

Once she had stopped retching, there was a long, drawn out moment of quiet, only the sound of Molly's laboured breathing cutting through the tension between them.

 _I can't breathe without loving you._

Charlie's declaration from the night before rang in her ears. If only she had known there had been a possibility of it being their last phone call. There was so much she hadn't got a chance to say… and now she never would.

"Oh, Jackie," she wept, stroking the skin of her forearm where, not too long ago, Charles' elegant curly handwriting had been marked in black Sharpie, before army regs had dictated she wash it off. ' _I love you, Mrs. James,'_ it had said. When she looked down, she could still it, even though it was long gone, along with the much less elegant ' _Ditto'_ she had written on his in return…just before she kissed him goodbye. "I don't want to sound all bonkers or nothing, but… I… _really_ don't think I can live without that bloody man."

Jackie looked at her friend with sympathy as she helped her wipe her eyes and found a tissue from the medical pack to wipe her running nose.

"You won't have to, Molls," Jackie assured, forever as solid as Molly's Nan's sense of humour. "SF will save him and you'll get him back and he'll be back to running poor recruits round Brize in no time… I promise."

Molly often marvelled at her friend's ability to be so _sure_ of everything, so concrete and strong when Molly was so often a distracted, fragged out mess. She suffered long and hard with nightmares after her first tour, despite the fact that her second short tour teaching medics had left her feeling fulfilled and… grown up.

Her mind wondered back to the day she returned from her first tour away from Two Section in an attempt to 'be brilliant'. It felt like a lifetime ago, when she had skipped, filled with the brim with butterflies, all the way from the train to a certain Rupert's doorstep in Bath, uninvited. Standing with a somewhat smug grin on her face, she watched as Charles' deviously handsome face came into view, sending her heart into overdrive in the process, and his expression shifted from despondency, to surprise, back to his usual smitten cheek as he took in the sight of her.

"Missed me?" she'd asked, opting for humour as she always did because if she hadn't, she'd have said what her bleed raced to say. _Seeing you, I feel like I can suddenly breathe again._

He'd said nothing, but the moment she was inside, the chuckle on his lips had died away and been replaced with a hesitant look of longing, like a lost little boy. He'd made her tea, just how she liked it, barely limping anymore, but she felt him but an inch from the curve of her neck as she went to sip it.

"What?" she'd giggled, nervously, gripping the mug tight because she knew her hands would otherwise shake.

"I'd forgotten how beautiful you are."

That had done it. She'd blushed like a bleeding tomato.

"Are you sure them medics at Headley ain't missed somethin' mega with your eyesight, Boss?"

He'd barked that breathless chuckle, just like he always did when she made him laugh with her one-liners… but then did something unexpected. He went quiet, to the point that she turned to look at him inquisitively, only to come eye to eye with the face whose eyes were wet with tears. But, it couldn't be tears, could it? Because The Boss _didn't_ cry.

"You're really here."

She recognised the look he wore, the glassy whites of his eyes shining, seeming to make a silent plea of some kind, while his jaw was tight ticked with tension. His words were a statement, almost sounding surprised, as though he doubted she'd come back.

Without a word, she moved close enough to reach up and push her fingers into his curls, all fizzed and unruly from where he'd been working in the garden prior to her arrival. Stroking the soft flicks back, she felt a lump rise in her throat at the vulnerable way he instantly dropped his head and leant into her touch, just as he had that day in the hospital. This time though, there was no icy Rebecca to interrupt them.

"I'll always be here," she had found herself whispering before curling up onto her toes to press a delicate kiss to his forehead, then down over his brow until she found his lips, where warm breath was escaping thick and fast, as though he'd been running. "A hundred per cent by your side."

She watched the spark of recognition heat up his eyes at the words. He tried to clear his throat, his hands dropping to pull her body as tight to him as possible. "Ditto," he'd attempted to say, but it came out cracked and brittle as though he was on the verge of losing control of his emotions.

As the memory whirred around her skull, the hot Afghan air filled her throat as her breathing escalated with the pain she now faced, dragging her back to the present. Who could she ever know such a moment of delicate delight again?

There was quiet again as Molly had to convince herself not to begin crying again every few seconds. She quickly fell into the cycle of grief, finally reaching the point when you are sure you have no tears left, thus momentarily forgetting her awful, terrifying new reality… but only for a moment, and then the tears and shortness of breath would begin all over again.

"I just can't stop thinkin'," she choked, sniffing unattractively as she tried to clear the second tsunami of tears as it assaulted her. "I only talked to him last night…" Her voice broke on the final word, rising in pitch and sounding like she might be part frog, "…and there's so much I could've said!"

But that was always how life was, wasn't it? Regrets were formed after naive decisions were taken and cowardly decisions to hide and file away for later too priority over the truth… It was mighty frightening, the truth. In this moment, it felt her feeling dwarfed and almost crusted by its sheer size and _weight._

"We all have things we should have said to people but didn't for whatever ridiculous reason…"

 _But you aren't hiding the fact your CO…attacked you, all hands and nails and teeth, pressing you against the wall of the shitter in the black of night…_

 _"_ Try not to worry, Molly," Jackie continued, unaware. "For one, it won't do you or James any good."

Molly bit her lip so hard it hurt, wanting to scream that her friend had _no clue_ the deceit she had managed to build between herself and the most important person in her life in that _one_ conversation… and if she did, she'd be sickened by the truth.

Molly was excused from her duties for the rest of the day by the Major, which she was glad of. The last thing she wanted was for her trainee Afghan medics or the rest of the British lot to see her face all red and puffy from crying… or worse, to cry in front of them. Instead, she curled up in her pit and shut out the world. When she came to again, it was dark outside and the rest of the tent was filled with her colleagues, sound asleep around her.

The moment she opened her eyes, she regretted doing so. There was a crisp envelope beside her head, evidently left there was the latest postal drop by Jackie. The elegant script marked on the paper so familiar that Molly only needed to catch a glance in the dark in her peripheral vision to know just whose hand had inked her name. For a moment, she was blissfully ignorant, lost in the fog of sleep. Then, the memories of the news she had received came back with the violence of a bullet to the chest.

Paying little mind to the consequences of doing so, she pushed back her sleeping bag pulled on her regulation boots and grabbing the treasured paper despite the fact it felt like fire in her hand, before making her way out into the dark in search of solitude. Up until two night ago, this had been her evening routine, just as it had been on every single one of her tours; she'd climb on top of the shitter to read her post over and over… and over again. Now though, in every shifting shadow and with every indistinct noise in the distance, she leapt out of her skin, half convinced that Captain Lawson was around every corner, ready and waiting to touch her against her will again.

Luckily, her anxiety seemed to be a symptom of her fragged, weary brain, as her Nazi of a CO was nowhere to be seen. Hastily still, she climbed to her usual perch. Once on top of the shitter, she could be seen by the tower guards, so was at no risk of being launched once she made the climb.

Where the danger arose, however, was in the shadows as she climbed down.

He'd been waiting for her, Captain Lawrence, with a gleam in his eye that left her shaking in her boots. He'd taunted her about being out when she shouldn't. " _There are all sorts of dangers about."_ She could still smell the mint of his breath, the closeness of which turning her stomach as it washed over her face.

 _"I was just leaving, sir,"_ she'd tried to excuse, her voice giving a tone of normality that she didn't in fact feel at all.

 _"No, don't go yet, Dawsey."_ She'd flinched at his use of that name, though at that point she hadn't quite known why, aside from the fact that it was what her second family called her and it was therefore a treasured name.

 _"My name's Dawes, sir – and, with respect, sir, I'll just be getting back to my pit now, sir – "_ She'd tried to pass him, but in the shadow of the pitch blackness beside the shitter, he had her cornered. He pressed her against the tin hard enough to rob her of breath, his face an inch from hers in an instant.

 _"Oi! Steady on – "_

 _"– Scream and we both know what will happen."_

She'd fought him as hard as she could, truly, but he was much stronger than her, being so broad and tall. As his hands wondered, she'd even tried to bite him, but that had only made him more eager. He held her head back by her hair, pressing it hard against the tin of the structure. She had intended to shout, to scream, to _make_ someone come over and catch him; she had always thought the stories about women who daren't say anything were bollocks, since she'd been a mouthy Newham gal her entire life and never therefore had a problem speaking her mind… But suddenly, in that moment, she understood.

 _"Say anything,"_ he threatened, once it was over, _"and you will find yourself out of here before you can say ISIL!"_ She'd pushed against him again, but that had only made his smile bigger.

 _"Bullshit, mate!"_ she'd rebuffed, near to laughing at him, both due to nerves, but also his arrogance. _"Get your grubby hands off me, or I swear I'll put my rifle through your chest!"_

She'd meant it, she really had, but then he'd began to talk. Slowly feeding her doubt, reminding her of the misogynistic nature of the army… Reminding her she wasn't much. " _You're funny, Dawesey… You really think they'll believe you over me?"_ Her scalp had burned under his hold. _"The loud-mouth cockney girl who_ fucked _her medalled CO? Who lied for nearly a year about her relationship with said superior? Only to then_ marry _him?"_

Slowly, she thought back to all the times she had received looks or comments from her male comrades once news had gotten out, once she had told the Major and not been allowed to work with the familiar, kind faces of Two Section. There had been many, but she had repressed her dislike for them. Charles ever hadn't noticed them, but that was simply because whenever she was with him, the people that stared daren't even glance twice… But, the moment he was gone, it was like they didn't care. After all, it wasn't like she was to be feared. She was no Captain… She was no _man,_ neither.

So, she did as every abused stereotype did… and she didn't scream. She bite his hand and used the split second of reprieve to run back to her pit. Unfortunately though, sleep escaped _her_ afterward. She'd even been too numb to cry.

The next night, of course, Charles had called… and the tears had arrived with a vengeance. And now? She had to live with the further guilt that she not only lied to the one person who mattered, but that this conversation, so economical with the truth, may well be the last conversation she was ever to have with him…

She could never be sure how long she sat, trembling despite the heat, staring down at the unopened letter. She knew it was from Charles; ever since the very first _Rosebaya_ incident she could spot his loopy hand anywhere. With a grimace as though in physical pain, she realised he must have sent it a few days ago, not knowing, as none of them on earth did, that the following days might just be his last.

She contemplated not opening it, as she knew it probably was not wise to do so; she was already in a state of mental breakdown without more lost words from him that she would never be able to reply to… But somehow, she felt she owed it to him, since she knew he loved writing her letters so much.

Well, that, and she just needed to hear his words; even if it was her mind, piecing together the sound in her memory.

Gripping to the paper suddenly as though it were an anchor, she eased the envelope open; taking her time, careful not to let it go in the wind.

It took her over three attempts to read it, as while firstly her eyes kept skipping ahead, utterly overeager and frantic; secondly, she couldn't see through the films of her tears. Winded, she began to read the words aloud; her own voice drowning out the memory of his.

 _My Dearest Molly,_

 _I'm not really sure why I'm writing to you considering we can now call one another. I suppose I like the romanticism of it… Okay, I love the romanticism of it. Yes, I'm soft and no, I'm not sorry for it. I'm only soft for you… Always you._

 _I digress – how are things? Our humanitarian mission here is feeling more like a 'hit your head against a brick wall' brigade. Just like you said in Afghan, it really feels like everything we do is one step forward, three steps back. I'm not quite sure if bloody Al Shabaab_ realise _we're only here to accompany the medics and doctors or if they just don't bloody care even about the health of their own people. I suppose perhaps they don't. What is the world we live in?_

 _I hope everyone is swell in Afghan and you're being as brilliant as you always are. How is maid-of-honour-of-the-year Jackie? I trust she's keeping my mouthy wife in line._

 _Two Section are being their usual, utter cockwomble selves – Dangles is a Lance Corp, now. Did you ever think we'd see the day?! He's keeping up, though, so no worry yet. Georgie says hello. She's really shaping up to be wonderful, Dawes. You were right to suggest her indeed. She's a very efficient medic – though she does suffer from getting a little too in-fucking-volved… just like someone else I know._

 _All this being said, I bloody miss you being here. Georgie is a utterly take-no-shit medic… but she isn't you. There's a Molly-shaped hole in the Section… but mostly, there's a Molly shaped hole in me. I miss you so much I have to shut you out when I'm on duty, did you know that? Completely freeze out any thought of you because your ability to disarm me is as strong as it ever was. I thought it would get easier, being away from you, but it's only getting harder. Even now, writing this – if you let a_ soul _know about this I will deny it and spank you into next week, Corp. James! – it's like…there's this ache in my chest._

 _If I think about you being so far away, 4,879 whole fucking miles, I just feel my patience and sanity just chipping away piece by piece – and then I think about the fact you're in a war zone and I feel like my head is going to explode!_

 _I suppose it's just husbandry worry but it's chronic, Dawsey, when I know where you are…without Two Section…without me. I want nothing more than to cuddle you up in my arms, even if it is in this regulation camper bed, and never have to get you go again… but we both know that would never be what you would want. You get sick of my cuddling and get fidgety long before I ever do._

 _If I'm utterly candid… there are moments when I'm not so sure I'm cut out for this; not anymore; a life with you if a life with just_ so _much to lose…_

 _My time is almost up as Georgie's about to drag us out on patrol again to see if we can eyeball this suspicious man she thinks she saw… Let's hope she doesn't have trouble as her shadow like a certain ex-medic of mine._

 _Keep safe, my darling. I can't wait to come back to you… so please, make sure you come back to me._

 _Oh, and don't forget to be fucking brilliant!_

 _…Did I mention that I love you?_

 _Yours, for always,  
Charles x _

Choking on her tears, Molly was silent as she stared up at the ever present stars, so bright and all-knowing compared to how dim and distant they seemed at home.

"Where are you?"

The question come as a croak and was unexpected and she whispered it into the dark, her hands trembling as held the new letter in her hands like it was a frail bird.

The void of silence that followed only made the chasm in her chest feel ever-more expansive, as though her soul was eating itself. As she tried to do as she was trained, _tried_ to steer her thoughts away from the grim, pessimistic worst-case, she had no fight left to do so.

"Please – bloody _hell_ , Charles – just – _please…"_ Her whispers felt hopeless, but they came as easily as breathing, as though pleading for her life. She looked at every stars she could, her eyes sweeping the view, urging, _straining,_ for something, _someone_ to hear her. If there were some bloody deity… it was about time he showed himself.

It was no accident that her next words could have been mistaken for a prayer.

 _"Come back to me."_

The silence surrounding felt like a resounding reply of a much more desolate kind.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hey y'all. So, guess what... I've finished university. I know, when did that happen?!_

 _So, my Captain Dawesy ship is well and truly sailing... I thought it was on its own in this ocean, so I am SO happy to see so many pople reviewed here on this, excited to read it. I have such a thing for these two so I'm so happy._

 _All errors are my own as I don't have a beta. Also, if there's anyone reading this with military knowledge, I'd appreciate your input on details :)_

 _LOVE & **PLEASE REVIEW. (It may motivate me to write the next chapter faster).**_

* * *

 **III**

* * *

Charles had been trained for this scenario. In his days at Sandhurst, he was taught copious strategies for how to cope should he and his men be captured by the enemy. The key was, of course, create a rapport with the kidnapper as much as possible should one's life be threatened, though this was hard to do without sharing any classified information, which would of course be an act of treason. The other most important thing in times of terrorism, however… deny your position.

 _"You! Soldier!"_ was the exclamation he was dreading… but thankfully, it hadn't come. He had been accompanying Georgie in the Ambulance when it had been ambushed. Thankfully, it possessed no windows and could be locked from the inside, giving him just enough time to strip himself of his bergen and greens shirt and throw on a nearby scrubs top. He stashed his rifle beneath medical supplies, adrenaline coursing through his body as he mentally ran through what would keep him alive. Hide your identity as a soldier, because armed militant terrorists made beheaded martyrs out of British soldiers.

As they had broken in the ambulance door, they therefore found two medics, both dressed in half scrubs, half fatigues, with no dog tags in sight – they had hidden them in a broken oxygen container – attempting to save the militant insurgent whom had just been injured. They shouted, 'We're medics! We'll help your friend, just don't hurt us!' until their throats were raw, having been thrown into the insurgent four by four and driven off into the flat, unknown of sub-Sarharian Africa. Their faces were covered roughly by course hoods that scratched and itched in the consuming heat. Charles strained to to make best use of the one sense he could still use, listening for whatever snatches of language he could hear. He knew Arabic somewhat, Pashto from all his time in Afghan, and had been trying to pick up some of Kenya's native Swahili while on these last two humanitarian missions. He never had much of a skill for speaking, but he was good at listening; his CO had always said that was what made him such a strong leader, after all.

As he listened, disappointed to not catch much of the foreign conversations around him, he attempted to close down his mind from imagining the worst, as he had long learned it never helped anyone. However, as he felt the barrel of a stranger's riffle against his back where he had been thrown, face first, into the back of the truck, he couldn't help himself. Visions of the safe life at home he left behind rendered him swallowing down ripples of unhindered emotion. _Sam,_ his poor little boy whom so often asked him why he had to go away but also so proudly told all his friends his dad was a soldier. His parents, so kind and supportive of his career, despite it's slight madness and obvious danger… and _Molly._ Instantly, his heart juddered and stuttered as though temporarily stalled. His beautiful wife, his best friend, mouthy and gorgeous in equal measure. If he were to die here, he would close his eyes and think of her face, every detail he could, so that she could still be the last thing he sees, just as he had always vowed.

 _Enough,_ he reasoned. _Such shite will get you nowhere._ He heard Georgie at his side, her breathing a little heavy. Their hands were tied now, so he couldn't reach out and touch her in comfort as he wanted to; he couldn't even see her from beneath the hood. For a long time, they were cramped in that truck, every so often intimidated by arrogant, foreign voices and rifles in their backs.

When the vehicle finally slowed, they were dragged from the truck and thrown down on the rocky dust. Charles nearly felt the dull aching pain of the hard ground beneath him knees, as he was far too preoccupied attempting to regain his spatial awareness. He coughed as the dust and dirt clouded around his hooded face, hearing Georgie doing the same. It wasn't long before their hoods were finally removed, leaving them blinking at the sudden harshness of the daylight.

"Salam alaikum," Charles greeted respectfully, as much as it pained him to do so, considering these men deserved no respect if they were the type to kidnap innocents. However, it had the desired effect, as the elder looking of the group began to mumble amongst themselves. "Who is your leader?" He knew it was a risk to even speak. However, the information would be valuable if they were to have any chance of escape. The response was silence, then when he rose his eyes and repeated himself louder this time, it became a kick to the ribs.

"No! He's just a medic! We were trying to _help_ your man!" Georgie shouted beside him, but he shushed her, ignoring the burn in his side.

"I am leader," came a authoritative voice. As Charles lifts this eyes, he was faced with the a masked figure, tall and broad, and with a surprisingly pale skin tone. His accent sounded to be foreign, not native to the region, perhaps Iraqi, though his English was clear. There was countless amounts of literature, Charles could suddenly recall, that demonstrated the ability for one inherent, born leader to be able to identify another. Here, Charles could feel that this man could see that same streak in him, too.

"Who are you?" the masked man demanded, pointing a rifle downward at Charles' head. He felt his pulse spike, unused to being unarmed, as he felt his fingers twitch in his bounds subconsciously for his handgun, which he usually kept in the holster at his hip. Unfortunately, he had been forced to abandon it or otherwise risk of being shot as a soldier.

"Medics," Charles replied, calmly. He then repeated the word most similar that he knew in his basic Arabic. "We are assisting at the refugee camp at the border," Charles answered, clearing his voice of emotion and employing his best _'stern face'_.

"Liar! You were with army," the leader barked, evidently doubting his story. The man's eyes were visible just about his make shift muslin mask and they squinted, Charles feeling thoroughly as though he was being sized up. " _You_ leader."

Charles, long skilled at keeping a stoic expression, didn't flinch at this accurate suspicion, despite the fact that such a secret could have him killed if it were proven. He felt his stomach swirl with nerves as he responded with he and Georgie's choreographed lie. "No, I'm just a medic. I'm no soldier." As the man circled him, Charles threw a bone. "I'd have an identify tag, if I were."

" _They're kinda' like friendship bracelets, doncha' think?"_

 _Greeted at the door by the potent scent of acetone again, he now no longer seemed to find the smell nearly as offensive; now it was just an extension of Molly.  
"What?"_

One moment he had been focused on the husk of the dusty, desert sand and the many dark, hate-filled eyes that surrounded him, and the next Molly's giggle resonated through him from nowhere; the mention of dog tags triggering agonising emotional whiplash as he was suddenly there again: home, in Bath, with _her_. Suppressed terror became momentary, familiar bliss. It would have sent Charles reeling onto his knees if he had not already been forced to the ground. He could have sworn she was beside him again, in that moment. It made his heart stutter painfully.

 _"Careful, Dawesy," he had drawled as she tugged at his tag while he decorated her shoulder with kisses. She'd been sat on the floor of their living room, painting her toes; totally flouting regulations, as had always been her prerogative._ _"One_ might _begin to suspect you_ care."

 _She had cackled, unruly, loud and utterly undignified, teasing him for his use of language as she always had. "_ One _would be so lucky!"_

As he felt the chilling cool barrel of the rifle against his head, he considered that he should never have thought a single bad word about that sound; in this moment of terror, there was nothing he would not do to hear her cackles one last time.

With his next breath, he attempted to banish all thoughts of her. The irony being of course, in doing so, he was banishing his usual only lifeline.

 _Focus,_ he betrayed himself, attempting to burrow himself deep into his centre as he was strip searched. They tore off his clothes, piece by piece, humiliating him for hope of finding proof of his being a soldier. The masked leader, tying him up in a makeshift cage within the slum-like compound of abandoned, bullet-ridden buildings, began sniggering as he withdrew a glinting beacon from around Charles' neck. Instantly, Charles cursed himself, wanting to thrash and beat the ground until his hands turned to dust for bringing it with him, for now he was never to see it again, but he had promised her he would never remove it from his person. As it hung from dirty knuckles in front of his face, it taunted him with what now felt like his previous life, which resided a massive five thousand miles away. _Thank fuck she is there and not here,_ was his only thought.

"Wife?" the leader questioned, as though such a prospect was funny. "Does your wife know you _kill_ my people? Kill _our_ wives with your bombs? Deny us our Caliphate?"

Charles kept his mouth shut, though his eyes never left the masked man's, noting the sorrow that resided there as he spat such words. Thinking back on all that Molly had taught him since their first tour together – _'Don't you ever just worry it's all been for nothin'?_ and then – _"What are we then, if we're not involved?" –_ and he dismayed. She had been right, to a degree. Perhaps the British Army's orders, interfering time and time again in the Islamic world, were not moral. Perhaps there should be more to being a leader in the Army than doing politicians bidding, never asking questions.

In that moment, he felt a unprecedented glimmer of Stockholm Syndrome; suddenly, this man's sorrow felt like his own as he was unable to even comprehend what state he too would be in if a drone had killed Molly while she was going about her day. He could only imagine the hell and fire he would seek on those responsible. Right there and then, though the Officer in him would never admit it, he too would watch the whole world burn if it took her away from him.

His captor held the ring in his gloved fingers, torn at the knuckle and ragged, and appeared to be reading the tiny inscription on the underside there. Charles, beneath his foot, had to resist every urge to leap and snatch it back, shackles or no shackles, grinding his teeth painfully.

 _"Bossman, the tea to my cup; spoon to my Coco Pops; sun to my Afghan sky: Ditto, forever. M."_

He had to hold his breath as he was assaulted with memories as the words met his ears, almost as though he was re-realising their significance for the first time. He had laughed at her when she had first shown him the inscription, sat in their wedding car, having just become man and wife.

 _"Oi!" she had chastised, feigning hurt. "That's dead romantic, that is!"_

 _He had kissed her quiet, her protests soon diminishing as he took hold of her face, so small in his large hands, and simply gazed at her. In her ivory dress, she had been a vision of everything he knew she would be as a bride; her trademark blush only complimenting the very fragile look in her eye. Her face was almost void of make up, though her eyes were more defined; he liked it that way. After all, the bare and natural Molly was the one he had fallen in love with. Her hair, always so heavy and soft against his fingers, had been curled and pinned high off her face and neck, and he had basked in the exposed skin, as he had been yearning to do since she appeared at the alter by his side._

"Am I really?"

"Really, what?"

"'The spoon to your Coco Pops'?" He hadn't been able to resist coming to rest his face against hers. Her skin was always velvet soft against his. "Because frankly, Dawes, I'm not sure if I should be honoured or concerned by your chosen imagery. Don't quit your day job."

 _"Um, that'll be Lance Corporal Dawes-James to you!"_

"Tell me, silent Englishman. Who is _'M'_?"

The leader's fractured English, surprisingly good, broke him from fragment of a treasured memory. Charles, almost grateful to be pulled from reminders of such bliss, kept his eyes down, instead watching as each blood droplet from his nose splattered and stuck to the sand.

He was punched when he did not reply, Arabic insults being thrown at him from various henchmen spontaneously, language that he long had memorised from his many previous tours. Aware that rule number one of being kidnapped was to try and create a rapport with one's kidnapper, he rose his eyes to the masked man, holding his eye to show he was not afraid as he answered loud and clear in Arabic with the truth: "Ya Hayati."

"A _woman_ is your 'life'?" He lifted his eyebrows and laughed, almost as though they were allies having a conversation over a drink. "For that, I might just let you live long. To witness the day the Caliphate burn her alive…" Charles' eyes never left the glinting silver band as the leader threw it to the sand and spat on it with a laugh, feeling a strange sense of hopelessness and guilt swarm in his gut. "Just like your people did to mine."

When they found no proof of his being a soldier, they threw his scrubs top back at him along with his combats, (he had almost forgotten of his nakedness), not even allowing him to redress as they then took Georgie in their sights. Instantly, Charles heard himself bubble into uncharacteristic visceral fury, knowing that Georgie, as a woman, was at at great risk of being abused in this situation.

"Leave her!" he growled before he could stop himself, attempting to throw himself in her direction against his shackles. "It's no need! I've proven to you, have I not? We're _not_ soldiers!" For that, inevitably, he deceived a numbing punch to the mouth and a kick to his ribs once he was down. He instantly rose his head, gritting his teeth against the pain to seek out Georgie's gaze. She was just out of his reach, thrashing against them as they pulled at her scrubs. To her credit, she fought them hard, though it was of course useless.

"Georgie – look at me." Her dark hair stuck to the sweat and blood on her head, but her dark eyes were all too clear in their terror. Heavy, large tears were barely contained by her eyelashes. In those eyes, he was suddenly struck with a realisation he never thought, as a British Army Major, he would ever voice. "Don't fight." He knew by the look in her eye that she was utterly aghast by his order, after all, they were soldiers! If they didn't stand up for themselves then who in the world should? But he also knew something else: that in situations such as these, you should save all the energy you have and not give them a reason to treat you even worse than they already will. _"Don't fight,"_ he murmured in his softest of voices, hoping that his eyes would convey his thoughts. _Save energy. Stay alert. Stay alive._ "It'll be over soon," he whispered into the space, a stark difference in volume from the shouts and jeers that surrounded them.

"She is valuable to you." The masked leader observed in a introspective tone, his eyes seemingly smiling. "And she is beautiful." He was watching Charles' face, that much was obvious. Little did this stranger know, the physical beauty of the entire world could never challenge the inconceivable bond between Captain James and his wife; his greatest friend. "Such temptation?"

While Charles barely kept tears back from his eyes, he still never broke eye contact with his comrade as they stripped her of her scrubs, looking for dog tags or weapons, groping her as they went and laughing at her 'pale' flesh and western 'man' clothes, calling her a white whore in their Arabic tongue.

"But what about your _'M'_?" Something must have given, even just a little, as the masked man's eyes glinted menacingly, knowingly. There was a pause in the assault on Georgie as he breathed out a sound of realisation. Meanwhile, Charles dropped his eyes, unable to see anything but Molly's grin, haunting him, leaving him feel bare and somewhat departed from this reality. " _Ah_ ," the masked leader taunted, as though he had been given a scared clue in a puzzle. "She must be a masterpiece if she rivals _this,"_ he traced Georgie's face with false tenderness, who turned away in disgust.

Charles didn't let himself look at Georgie's naked flash as his mind was yet again drawn to his wife. Yes, Georgie _was_ beautiful – he _was_ a man, of course he was aware she was beautiful – but beauty, the army had taught him, dissolved into insignificance when one was teetering between the precipice between life and death. His eternal longing for _Molly_ , bright, effervescent, _addictive_ Molly, had never really much been about physicality, not until he was already in love with her. She was his comrade, having risked her life to save his own, plugging his wound with her bare hands. More than that, she was the only woman to ever make him laugh until he cried and yet also trigger in him such guttural, _desperate_ love that it made him sentimental enough to want to weep, even after many months, whenever he walked past their wedding photograph hanging in the kitchen.

He remained silent, for by _God_ she _was_ a woman unparalleled, even by someone as good and beautiful as Georgie. He may be bias, but he would swear on his life to that truth and no bullet, knife or torturer could fracture it.

Accurately predicting that their captors would get bored with them soon enough when they found nothing, Charles tuned them out, relaxing into their manoeuvring of his body as they jeered at him, letting the punches come. Inevitably, this meant that he was beaten even more, the militants roughing them up no doubt so that they would look adequately beaten in whatever hostage video they would soon be forced to partake in.

They were shackled in the make-shift shelter, only partially protected from the unforgiving strength of the East African sun. The day passed slowly, marked only by the increased parched nature of his throat and the gradual departure of the sun.

"How will they find us?"

Charles, never one to be partial to hysteria over strategy, withdrew within himself, attempting to recollect the movement of the truck and visualise how far they could possibly have traveled. He could feel Georgie attempting calm herself and let her training kick in – wait it out, preserve energy, stay alive – but he knew by her fidgeting and occasion attempts at making conversation with Sabaab's dogsbody, a young, somewhat flea-bitten looking adolescent boy, that she was struggling. Truthfully, he did know the answer. He had somewhat of an idea of the kind of strategies used by Special Forces, thanks to Elvis, but nothing he could predict. He knew they would already be being searched for, however; that their families would already have been informed…

Instantly, he shut down the next thought before it even formulated entirely. _No, Charles._ He took a deep breath of the consuming heat and revelled in its ability to be a distraction. _Don't fucking go there._

By the passing of the last of the sun's rays, Charles could no longer ignore his thirst. Numerous requests for water, each more urgent than the last, went unanswered. When Georgie asked a third time, the anonymous militants laughed and placed a dog's bowl, filled to the brim, just out of their reach to torture them.

"I'm sorry about your ring, sir," Georgie's soft Manchester drawl whispered through the bars, as they were now shackled, separated by rickety, rusting iron bars. "The bastards took my engagement ring too." When he did not reply, she began to ramble into the silence between them, as she always did – just as Molly would do. "Not that mine has half the sentiment – don' really mean half as much as yours, really." Her voice was suddenly low, sad, as though coming to a realisation. "No offence to poor Jamie and all."

He had become fond of Georgie, as fond as a married Major could be of their medic who was also his wife's good friend, having been recommended as Two Section's new medic by multiple colleagues also. She was good at her job: dedicated, sharp, wilful, but also kind and caring. That being said, she became involved where she shouldn't, just like Molly. It was for this reason he pitied her unfortunate personal life, because she deserved a stable person to come home to; not his _arsehole_ of a friend Elvis who left her at the alter the previous year. Her new man, Dr Jamie, he had only heard about through Molly's Facebook stalking; the words 'nice but dull as a plank' were used, if he recalled correctly.

"How did you know you loved her, sir?" The question felt small, filling the massive silence between them as their captors temporarily seemed to disappear for a while, leaving only the young boy with a rifle to guard them. "Molly, I mean."

Charles frowned, his eyes still closed as he sat in the dirt, against the wall, wearing only his combat trousers and boots. He had been attempting to map out the movements of the truck as he could recall them – Sharp left, half a mile straight, right, right again, left, about turn, straight road for approximately 50 miles? – but her question disrupted him. He tried his best to swallow the automatic irritable response and took a breath. Thoughts of Molly were a bliss he felt he could not afford; a kind of torture, actually.

"Do you make a habit of asking your CO such personal questions?" he questioned dryly, unable to help himself. His ability to banter with Two Section was almost a reflex, after all this time. He barely recognising his voice as it croaked, completely dehydrated. Clearing his throat as he knew he did whenever he was uncomfortable, he finally rose his gaze to hers, only to find her looking thoughtful. He sighed at the sight, already anticipating her train of thought.

"It's just that… I 'aven't seen anyone more…a _unit…_ than you two. It's like there's no join, between where one starts and the other begins, even though you're pretty bloody opposite – _if_ you don't mind me saying, sir."

Charles couldn't help himself – he laughed, as painful as it was to do so. "Sounds like you have us sussed, Lane."

Suddenly, they were sent reeling by a sudden bang to their cage and a aggressive order of _"No talking!"_ from their young guard as he jabbed at Charles' head with the butt of his dated rifle.

"Hey!" Georgie instantly yelled, launching herself at the bars that separated them, managing to manoeuvre enough to lean her head against them. "He was _answering_ me!"

Charles managed to sit up again, his head now throughly aching, though he barely let out a grimace. "Leave it, Lane," he heaved, suddenly aware of how exhausted his voice sounded.

The two were now quiet again until the young guard was distracted, Georgie managing to manoeuvre herself to look at the injury on his head. He dismissed her, but just as Molly would, she all be ordered him to get as close to the bars as he could so she could see.

"D'ya often give Molly this much grief when she was your medic, sir?" she chastised humorously, though all humour felt hollow with the raw nature of their voices.

"She'd say so. The amount of blister plasters she went through," he replied, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips at the thought of how she liked to tease him, too. "Best not call me 'sir', in case they hear."

Instantly, she nodded, for once obediently following her Commanding Officer.

"Doesn't look too bad, s––" She managed to catch herself, even though her voice was as low as it could be without being a whisper. "You'll just 'ave a headache or two."

Charles quirked his eyebrows, as this was hardly news. "No different from being stuck with Two Section daily, then, _still_ trying to cut bloody slits in their fucking eyebrows."

Somehow, they managed to whisper a laugh. In that moment, selfish as it was, Charles could not have been more grateful for one of his men to have been in danger along side him. "Y'aren't half right there!"

–x–

By the time night fell completely, the clear near-luminescent moon highlighted the glint of every rifle and the furrowed brows of every hateful stranger. Charles' thoughts had inevitably trailed from strategy, the thirstier and hungrier he became. He had been dragged away from their makeshift cell and questioned again, much of the same. When he had provided them with nothing more, they had spat at his feet and thrown him back into his shackles.

"Boss!" Georgie called into a whisper, her voice trembling as they slammed the door to his cage, crawling and dragging her shackled feet behind her. "What did they do?! Are you—?!"

He was now sure he had broken ribs, as breathing triggered a white-hot sharp pain through him. He lay, slumped against the stone behind him, attempting to focus on oxygen. He trembled, as the desert was very cold with the setting of the sun, though he barely noticed. Their anonymous captors offered them nothing but a broth and warm, slightly unsanitary looking water, but they took it with argument, rushing to consume to the extent that Charles felt it dripping down his chin.

"Just the same...questions," he breathed, his words fractured as he tried to ignore the pain. "They were arguing. I think they are undecided...on what to...do with us—" The words were too much as he broke off, breathing hard.

"That can only be good... can't it?"

He didn't like to give anyone hope where there was no certainty, but conflict amongst their captures could most definitely only be a positive sign. Number one rule of war: where there was weakness, there was something to exploit. "Hopefully so."

Georgie, only separated by a set of bars, looked as though she had been attempting to sleep in the dust, though the likelihood of managing that was minuscule, especially considering the track marks of tears on her cheeks. The shock of her dark hair was all he could see out the corner of his eye, a painful reminder of home, where he would wake to a similar sight.

"What do you think they know?" Georgie asked inevitably, her question small and frightened, reminding him of the fresh meat he used to come across in Basic. "At home? By now?"

He found himself wondering what his wife was doing in that moment, wishing he could see the stars where the makeshift tin roof blocked his view. Did she know he had been taken? Surely so. Rebecca, Sam, his parents however? Most likely not until the morning, as the Army would first have to send out home visits.

It was all he could do but nod.

"Jamie won't rightly know what to do with himself," Georgie whispered. "Though, he's so busy with his own work he'll probably be the last to know." She didn't even sound resentful, as one might expect, but almost... resigned.

 _'Jesus, Molly! That's a little harsh!'_

 _He had been laughing, leaning over her shoulder as she tilted her laptop screen towards him, despite the fact he was trying to chastise her for her bluntness._

 _'What?! I_ said _he was nice, d'n I?! Just dull as a plank, tha's all. Still a better pick than that Elvis, mind you – in a month o' Sunday's!'_

He stiffened against the memory, yearning to hear the familiar near-lullaby of that endless cockney voice, rather than mental reflections of it.

"I'm sure he'll be distraught," Charles defended softly, though his words felt like some sort of autopilot. "Molly always said he was nice."

Involuntary depictions of how his wife, queen of overreactions, may have reacted swamped him then, leaving his throat feeling closed up with emotion he had been attempting to pretend he did not possess. He hoped she had not cried too long, remembering how desperate and hopeless her tears always made him feel. Perhaps she could find something to do to take her mind away from such worries, he considered, since she was in Afghan, though somehow he already knew that was wishful thinking; a way for his mind to try and absolve the guilt he already felt.

After all, every time they parted since the very first time, he had made her take the one same vow and each time, without hesitation, she had taken it.

 _Come back to me,_ he would say.

 _I will, don't worry,_ she would reply. Like clockwork.

What a painfully simple request, and yet it was the one thing he could now no longer promise with certainty. She had always come back to him... but now, it would be he who might break their vow. _Don't go there._

"I'm sorry." The whisper slipped from his lips and took him by surprise, so soft it barely reached his own ear. There was no logic in apologising to the vast, empty desert, of course, but the guilt he felt when picturing his wife's despair was unparalleled to any that had weighed on his shoulders before, with perhaps the exception of being faced with Smurf's mother after the death of her son a second time.

He knew Molly loved to sit on roofs and stare the stars when she was on tour, so perhaps he had spoken in the delusion that she might hear him, or at least feel him, looking up at the same sky as he tried to.

He must have looked thoroughly distressed – Molly always told him he had a face as expressive 'as them mines, init' – because Georgie was no longer speaking, but instead studying him hard.

"She won't blame you, Boss."

He was not sure to what Georgie was referring to at first, momentarily so lost in his own thoughts. Then his chest began to ache as it all hit him again.

"She will." He wanted to laugh, because of course she will. "' _Bleedin' heroics, Bossman! What have I told ya' about heroics?!'"_ Imitating her felt so easy, fooled him temporarily into feeling close to her. Then, his smile slipped; no warmth survived long in the grips of terror. "But no more than she'll blame herself."

He could practically hear Georgie's questioning gaze from where he sat. "Why? She wasn't even here—?"

"—Exactly," he finished, heaving a heavy sigh. She would never forgive herself for not being here instead of him; he knew that was true because it would be how he would feel. "But _fuck,_ am I glad! I don't think I've ever been so glad to have a wife in Afghan!" His voice sounded thick suddenly, full of emotion he didn't realise had surface. His typical clearing of the throat did little to banish it. "I don't know what I'd do—"

He cut himself off; the idea of Molly here in the hands of militants and torturers too much to bear.

"She still calls you Bossman..." Georgie sounded as though she was smiling, but he couldn't know for sure even if he had the energy to turn, as his eyes were now glassed over with tears, yet to fall. "After all this time!"

"Yes" he choked, the word cracked and broken in his throat. "She's not much partial to change." He grits his teeth then against the memory of their first tour, when she had been little to him but a private; all wide, conversational eyes and smart mouth. He then shook his head to himself, the chill of the night air bringing back Afghan, almost as though it was running in his veins again. His tongue tucked into his cheek, fighting a sudden smile. "She's always been so stubborn!"

"Name me a woman who isn't!" Georgie agreed with vigour, though it did little to cheer him.

He was not sure he knew how to answer that.

"Something wasn't right," he confessed into the night, barely aware of Georgie now. "When we last spoke. Something..." he trailed. "She was keeping something back from me." His frown felt as though it had set into his features like stone; Molly did often joke it might, one day, should the wind change. "I should have made her tell me, called her CO, been there for her more—"

"—No one could ever do what you do and yet give such energy and care to another person like you do, Boss... and she knows. _"_ Georgie was quiet for a moment, until he felt her nudge the bars with her shoulder in an attempt at comfort. "She'll survive." The words had weight, because they weren't false. She didn't say 'She'll be fine', because they both knew that 'fine' was not a state that anyone escaped in from any war zone. Instead, the words were earnest, founded in truth and _belief_. He envied her ability to sound so sure, for all certainty seemed to have suddenly abandoned him. "From what I can see, Molly always does."

He nodded, not trusting himself to reply.

 _Her walls are strong,_ he wanted to say, but he couldn't find his voice. _But little use are they when a siege is being triggered from within._


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: This story was born out of a series about war, loss and learning that some rules are most definitely built to be broken._

 _Literally as I was writing this chapter, I became aware of the news that so many lives had been taken in Manchester this week; all in the name of the same warped, hateful ideology that I had been writing in this story._

 _I feel so proud to be from North England; the kindness and instant acts of community in the face of terror should remind us all that there is more that unites us than divides us, no matter what our religion or region, language or colour._

 _Interestingly, this is Molly and Charles' message too, I think: love really does conquer all: war, terrorism... and even army regulations._

* * *

 **IV**

* * *

"How are you, Molls, love?"

She wanted to bark that such a question was bleedin' _stupid,_ but she didn't even have the energy. She had been avoiding that very question around the base since _it_ happened

"Even _worse_ than you'd probably expect to be when ya' husband's kidnapped actually, mum."

"O'course," she excused apologetically, sounding as though she herself was sniffling. "Sorry, stupid question."

" _Come of it!_ Not you too, mum!" she tried to protest, her throat still feeling as tight as it had been days ago. "I've blubbered enough as it is––!" Tears threatened to break their banks again and rose a sense of panic in Molly. She was just so _sick_ of crying.

"I know, I'm sorry, love," Belinda excused, rambling as she always did. "It's just so awful, ain't it? Charles is a top bloke; doesn't seem like he could hurt a fly, really. He wouldn't want to be sad, though, Molls. He'd want you to keep busy – you _are_ keeping busy, aren't you?"

Molly's eyes were crunched so tight with impatience that she could see sparks of colour in her vision. " _Tryin',_ mum," was all she could manage, her voice frail and pathetic. "They want to send me home."

"Well, that's good, ain't it?"

 _Home._ She was not sure if the word felt more like a prayer or a curse. Home, the flat she and Charles now owned together, a sweet little place in Bath that suited her expectations and her modest beginnings. (Although she had contributed all she could, it had been considerably less than Charles had). It was a place that she could retreat to, a sanctuary; certainly not something her parent's home could ever have been. It was quiet and all that surrounded her there reminded her of nothing but the best of times; copious photographs from their many collective tours, punctuated with the emotive addition of their wedding photographs, which took pride of place on every mantle and kitchen wall.

She had jested when she used to first visit him at Royal Crescent that Bath wasn't all he ranted and raved about, but secretly she had grown more attached to it than any place in the city she came from.

Looking down, she thumbed the treasured rings that hung on a cord around her neck.

Bath was home now, but only because it was where Charles was.

"But I don' think I can go back there, mum. Not without him––" Her speech became broken as she bit back a sob, though no tears broke their barriers this time. Memories that felt as fresh as that very morning were immobilising; welcoming, soft, tired smiles over the rim of mugs of teas and cups of Rosabaya; fierce kisses interrupting disagreements over ghosts of past guilt. So often she would wake, still haunted by the occasional nightmare, memories of bomb vests, strapped to sweet, innocent souls like Bashira. There was _so_ much blood in her dreams, especially when she was feeling fragged. Charles had been like a balm to a wound in that respect; with the application of his continued sweetness, and such surprising tenderness, daily, her wounds had begun to heal. The calmness had finally returned to her nut a little, because if there was one thing her husband was, it was calm, sure, _strong,_ and for that she owed him a never ending well of gratitude.

Now, in the four days since Charles had been taken, her nightmares returned, filled with new images, though just as bloody as before. Warm memories that stirred butterflies in her belly would one by one turn sour, teasing her with a taste of the bliss of what once was, before warping into images of Charles' dead and lifeless face. Only now, there was no hot, reassuring arm curling around her to rouse her from her terror, no whispers of love against her hair.

Mental aspirations of all those nights lying beside him, beneath him, basking in a new kind of all-consuming passion she had never known existed before she met him, were the worst of all. Each, without fail, would transform from a dream wrapped up in precious memories to a nightmare about _Him,_ her CO, the one who had… _hurt_ her.

Instead of inviting, warm brown eyes, the colour of chocolate, that could strike up a conversation all of there own, it would be ice-like blue eyes that would greet her; the memory of gentle and calloused olive hands, with such a skill for the ability to caress and hold, would suddenly become one of pale and freckled limbs which liked to grab, pinch and _take._

Worry for Charles had become inevitably intertwined with an all-consuming guilt. Shame had since taken seed in her chest, the kind of shame a person could only feel if they had been touched against their will.

"Then come home to us! That's what family's for, Molls."

 _But you're not my family, really,_ she wanted to say, though she never would. _Charles is my family._ Instantly, Molly swallowed shame for thinking such ungrateful things; it was not her mum's fault that she and her daughter had nothing in common, that her daughter ran off to the Army and found comrades who would understand her far more than any civilian ever could.

"I might," she excused, suddenly wanting the conversation to be over with. "I'll see what them lot decide to do with me and let you know."

"How's your slimey new Major bloke you mentioned in your letter?"

Inhaling sharply, Molly had to take a moment to backtrack, wondering how her mum knew about Captain Lawrence and just how _much_ she knew. Then, she remembered the letter to which Belinda had been referring; it was one she had sent in her first week, mentioning that her new CO was a cock, which he had been, but not just to her.

Little did she know, of course, that a few weeks later he would take things further than just being rude and arrogant cock.

"Her's a Captain, mum – not a Major," she correct automatically, rubbing her brow in frustration and stress. "He's still a twat, mind," she snapped, knowing her mum would think little of it, since she once said the same about Charles. "Even worse, actually." She would tell her the truth, but not until she had told Bossman… and certainly not over the phone. She was suddenly truck with terror at the possibility that she may never have the opportunity to tell him the truth… and therefore never raise the burden of her current guilt.

Strangely, she wasn't ashamed at the thought of telling her family of the assault. They knew her history with men who had questionable ethics and therefore understood her devotion to Charles without much questioning. This was also probably why, besides the obvious, they all too grew to worship Charles so much; he was everything the few boyfriends she had previously could have never been.

She supposed that was why she felt hot, gag-worthy amounts of shame only at the prospect of telling Charles, because what if it made her sullied to him? After all, she was the girl that fell in love with her CO on tour, what was to stop her doing it again? She could barely comprehend how she had managed to bag him in the first place!

Such thoughts were not rational, she knew that. If she had the balls to tell the truth to Jackie in the days since it had happened, she knew that would be what Jackie would have said. Charles had _married_ her, after all; accepted her as she was and loved her for it. He would not dismiss her, especially not if he could see how distressed and fragged it had made her.

Her mind once again cast back to their last phone call, when she had been reeling from the assault so violently that she had done something she never had before and wept on the satellite call, barely holding herself together. She could tell by his parting tone that it had distressed him and in hindsight she berated herself for it. She knew _,_ having married the bloke, that he pretended to be an island, all isolated and untouchable, when in reality he was an open book, should you know where to look. _Yes_ , he was the boss; _yes_ , he was known for his trademark stern face and dominant eyes, but she knew what many did not: this was only half the man.

The other half barely kept back his tears as she wobbled towards him down the aisle at their wedding, (her knees had been shaking so much that she held onto her dad for dear life). This half was articulate, a great lover of poetry and instead of using his booming voice reserved for orders, his words could be soft, sometimes breaking or faltering with emotion his job had always taught him to pretend he did not feel.

At their wedding, with Dangles' masterminding, she had decided that she wanted to give a speech, even though it was not really expected for the bride to do so. She had panicked for weeks after announcing she was going to do it, deliberately keeping it from Charles, as she soon realised that, despite all that he had taught her by way of vocabulary, she still hadn't got the words in her nut that would begin to do him justice. Instead, she chose to 'fuck tradition royally up the arse', as Smurf would have put it, after Dangles suggested that they do a performance for him together as Two Section, since the Boss had such a love for music. Fast forward to the wedding however, her nerves were so bad, she had cursed herself for saying she would do it. She had introduced their rendition of _'Don't Go Breakin' My Heart'_ , watching the utter bemusement on her new husband's beautiful face turn to knowing, baffled glee as she announced his favourite song, and felt the entire time as though she might sweat the dress off. His smiling eyes became increasingly glassy, despite the fact he laughed. Perhaps the entire thing – getting married in a beautiful little church in Bath to a man she never thought when even look twice at her when they met – had been simply too overwhelming for them both.

As she sang those words again, all she could remember was the first and last time, when she and the Boss had been nothing but colleagues and he had demanded she duet with him to his favourite song when it Two Section's turn to provide entertainment. It had been then that he had seen a glimpse of the _actual_ Molly Dawes, rather than the Molly Dawes on tour. It had been then that she had seen the cheeky bastard he could be, as he had winked at her, singing with his annoyingly beautiful voice.

The memory felt so raw and poignant in comparison to the version of herself that she could see she had now become.

As the performance had drawn to a close, Charles having been of course invited to sing the chorus with her one last time, Fingers had arranged for a little surprise of his own, as a picture was suddenly projected onto the wall behind the stage with the closing line.

There, in seven foot glorious colour, was none other than their Two Section pre-deployment photograph, taken the very first day they met.

She had found herself repressing sobs before the performance was even over and so with the sudden emotional jab of the photograph, these had transformed into ugly weeping. Amongst the cheers and copious whoops of Squadies, she had managed to slip from the main reception room of the posh Bath hotel the moment the song was over and the disco resumed, needing to move herself from the noise and chaos to simply have a good cry away from prying eyes.

Before she had even had chance to catch her breath after the first sob, she turned to find none other than Charles had followed, his immaculate navy dress uniform now unbuttoned at his collar as his chest heaved up and down as though he'd been out on exercise, cap and gloves long gone. It was only by looking at his face that she knew this exertion had been because he was trying to keep back his tears, which shocked her. The closest thing to such an expression she had ever seen from him has been the one he attempted to keep from his face after Smurf's funeral: his lower lip seemed to pout as his usually expressive brow was suddenly smooth, leaving focus entirely on the red and glassy nature of his eyes. At the wedding however, this half of Charles James revealed itself even more than it had in the shadow of death, war and grief.

She had tried to smile at him, explain and apologise away her tears, only for his own chin and bottom lip to tremble. " _Fuck––!"_ she had gasped, feeling as though she may be on the cusp of some kind of attack with the lack of air her sobs were allowing her. She had bewildered herself, if she was honest, as the tears were ones of joy and, frankly, _disbelief,_ so she couldn't even explain why they were suddenly arriving with such force. "I don'know why I'm––I just––" The breath had tried to draw in had sounded like a wheeze. "I think I might love you too much."

His chocolate eyes, always so warm and fiery in their conversational nature, were unwavering and shouting almost too loud to bear. "Ditto," he choked, his voice barely unrecognisable as the word was more of a sob. Suddenly, it was a though they were in their own little bubble, similar to how it had felt the day Sohail died and delivered news that had descended them both into a sudden fear of losing one another.

One heavy tear, then another, broke from from his eyes as he attempted to make a nonchalant sound, perhaps in the hope of calming her. Instead, it did little but make her tearful smile wobble. After all, the sight of a loved ones tears only ever seemed to trigger more tears.

He had remained a good few feet from her as she had been stood against the wall, arms around herself as though to try and hold herself together. In an instant however, he had launched through all distance between them and gripped her body to his in a hug unlike any hug she had ever been given. She had known without withdrawing herself that they were both crying, as she heard and felt the shudder of his breath against her neck, the near-painful tight grip of his hands around her back and shoulders. The kisses came next as he inhaled heavily in an attempt to swallow back his tears, the placement of each one random and frantic along her throat and up to her face, anywhere he could reach. She could remember thinking that he had been mouthing something against her skin in those moments. It wasn't until he draw back enough to hold her eye again that she realised he had, in fact, been whispering; the words were soft and repeated, almost like a prayer. _"Thank you."_

That alone left her holding onto him to keep herself from sinking to the carpet.

She had kissed him then, at first fiercely on the mouth but then repeatedly across his face as he had hers. He was not used to such overt displays of her affections outside of their private bedroom and she could tell that it instantly struck a chord with him, as he had always been more affectionate than she was. She intentionally therefore worshipped any and all skin of his face, suddenly desperate to hold him and never let him go.

"Please," she'd whispered, though she didn't know why. "Promise me somethin'." His hands were around her waist entirely, keeping her right up against him as her back was against the wall. Hers held his face, cradling it like he had done so many times as she told him fragile, terrified truths as though suddenly, they weren't so frightening anymore. "I'm strong 'nd that, Army wise," she continued, watching his eyes smile even when his tears left him with little energy for move. "I shot a man and I save peoples lives but without you in my life… well… I think I'd drown in all that." His grip had tightened, a reflex, as though flinching at the imagery.

"No––" he had tried to deny. "No, Molly, it's all _you_ ––"

"Wait––" she begged, aggressively sniffing before rattling on, afraid she'd lose her words. "I can save other random buggers, I can even save _you_ , when you get yourself all shot an' that – but I can't save myself, not without you. Half the time I can't even tell the difference between drownin' and swimmin', for God's sake—" She gasped for breath, only to interrupt herself. " _That_ was meant to be a metaphor, I think, but also true since we both know I still can't swim." She tried to wipe her eyes, knowing that make up must be beginning to leak down her face, both of them laughing tearfully at her rambling, but he beat her to it, wiping her cheeks with loving delicacy. "Point is: the photo made me think, about the Molly I was and the Molly you showed me I could be an' that… They both have one thing in common, though. One may have been a salon girl in uniform, with no prospects and no respect for her own safety and the other may be a fragged… loud-mouth… _mess_ of a Lance Corp… but... they've both always been yours. I'll always be yours."

He blinked another tear with the confession, a flush to the skin of his neck and up his cheeks as though he was suddenly aware he had been crying. He reached up rush them away, but she beat him to it.

"Please never, ever leave me – ever – _please_. "

Her request had been so small, it had sounded like the utterance of a frightened child, but she knew he had heard. Pulling her close enough to press their foreheads together, the very first intimate contact they ever really had all that time ago, and stared into her eyes. Suddenly, his tears were no more, as his trademark certainty returned to his eyes.

"I couldn't. I'd be leaving a part of myself behind."  
It was a vow of its own kind, to join the many they already had.

I need you one hundred per cent by my side. I am, sir, one hundred per cent by your side.

Ditto. Ditto.

Always. Always, sir?

Come back to me. I will.

I do. I do.

"I've been yours since you fucking went up on that bloody winch and disobeyed me," he whispered in reply. It didn't escape her notice that he never let go of her, a hand always touching her somewhere. "Or perhaps when you came out in those short-shorts for exercise."

"And all to save a sheep-shagger who didn't even make it a year––" The joke would have once been far too painful to make, but now it only felt right to use Smurf' own humour in his memory.

" _God,_ I fucking love you," came Charles' reply, laughing at the state of his tear stained face as he pulled away enough to straighten himself, before reaching out to thumb her Military Cross medal where it embellished the centre of her dress' waistband. It had of course been his doing, her being awarded it, after she had put her life on the line to save Smurf. It had made him furious, to watch her disobey him, but so unbelievably proud and awestruck, even though at the time he hadn't been sure why.

"Yeah, I know," she replied, feigning arrogance as she had wiggled her eyebrows at him as his fingers found hers, intertwining with them. "Why else would ya' be blubberin' like a newborn?"

The joke left his mouth twisted in its trademark smirk as he had shaken his head at her.

"Why, indeed."

She stole another soft kiss, loving the soft tickle of the slight stubble the provided handsome definition to his jaw, with the hope it may soften the blow of her joke and make sure he knew she appreciated him opening up to her more than anything. When she attempted to pull back, he didn't let her go.

"I love you, too, Bossman," she whispered, smoothing her hand over the curls of his forelock, now beginning to frizz and fall forward beautifully from where he had attempted to wax them back. He had dropped his head into the touch, almost as Sam sometimes did when she did it to him, with a slight, barely visible nuzzling her hand. "Especially in that dress uniform."

His eyes had been so warm, glinting at her compliment, she remembered never wanting to look away.

"Shall we get out of here, _dear wife_?" he had murmured, bouncing on his feet as though he were Sam asking to sneak Haribo from the sweets jar. The word made her stomach flip.

"'Bout bloody time, mate!" She had replied as he had already begun pulling her down the corridor to find their honeymoon suite, leaving their guests to carry on getting drunk without them. She had thought he'd never ask.

Her mother's voice broke her from the memory.

"Well, that's a tad shit. I hope you get one up on 'im, Molls!"

She tried to smile into the night, but the entire expression felt hollow. Everyone always had such faith in her; faith she so often felt she did not deserve.

The next day, after another night of very little sleep and tormenting nightmares, she did as she did every day and put herself to work. One of her most promising new trainees, Salam, was a kind and sweet young man and the only thing that rose her an inch out of the ashes of her despair.

"Your man is down, bleeding from the upper thigh. Make sure you 'ave bound it right, mate," she instructed over the boy's shoulder – she hesitated to think of him as a man when he was only eighteen, if that. "The tourniquet has to be as tight as possible, remember?" They were testing on someone who wasn't injured, of course, having stopped to simulate a soldier being shot half way through exercise. There was some of the trainees under her charge who were pretty hopeless, but Salam truly tried hard, so she instantly warmed to him. In the first few weeks, she had found herself chatting to him after she found him looking sad on top of the toilets, just like she used to in the darkest days of her first tour. He had asked her about her life in England, interested to hear all about how it could possibly rain so much and what half of her English slang meant. He reminded her of Rolex Boy, the young boy she had failed to save from Green on Green on her first tour. He too looked far too young to be in the Afghan Army, with tidy cropped black hear and kind, almond shaped eyes.

She could feel him watching her intently as she carried out medical training and listening closely when she spoke, though she had told him numerous times that her English was not good enough to be repeated.

"What does this mean?" Salam had questioned weeks ago, looking earnestly confused when she told him not to take English lessons from her. "You English, yes?"

Laughing, she had offered him some of her sweet tea. "To be honest, mate, even my 'usband likes to take the piss and say I ain't."

He had cocked his head. "Your husband does not understand your words, also?" His questions were voiced with such innocence she had to remember not to laugh.

"Not by half, mate," she giggled. "Especially when I've had one too many Vera Lynn's! He's a Rupert, see. Speaks properly Queen's English and that."

" _'A Rupert'_ is…?"

She shook her head, looking up at the stars. "A rich bloke, usually. Speaks with long words." Explanations were hard to come by, then she really thought about it. "Like Major Beck?"

He had nodded, understanding at least a little of what meant. "Your husband is British Army Major?"

She'd smiled at the thought, still somewhat disbelieving when such a title was used.

Now, after all that had happened to her, she knew he could see a change in his trainer. His eyes followed her as they finished their exercise and she instructed them to stow all their medical kits away correctly. Her eyes were down, no doubt swollen and red from hours of crying and sleep deprivation, and when she looked up, he was frowning in his earnest, questioning way.

"Lance-Corporal," he began once they were dismissed. "May I ask a question?"

Taking a deep breath, she sniffed and prepared herself for what was coming. "'Course."

"Some of the men are saying, talking… Is it true your husband is prisoner of Al Shabaab?"

Instantly, her hands stilled where she had been busying herself packing up excess equipment. Her knuckles were white, crushing packages of gauze in her fists as she attempted to redirect her automatic instinct to cry.

"Not that it's any of them lot's business," she scolds upon reflex. She barely recognises her own voice.

"Yes. I am sorry––" Salam instantly moved to retreat, seemingly suddenly frightened of her, the thought of which making her even more miserable.

"––It's been four days," she divulged suddenly, trying to smile when Salam turned back to her. "They ain't told me anything else… I think I'm going a bit out of my nut." Reaching up to wipe a single tear, she smiled at the boy, who looked so sorry it made her heart warm.

"Nut?" he questioned. "What does this mean, _'nut'_?"

She laughed, despite the fact her throat felt on the verge of closing all together. "Head."

He makes a noise of understanding, looking down at his feet in respect of her rank. "I know this feeling – Daesh kill my family."

Molly's heart skipped a beat at his private confession, gulping at the thought of the horror the young men, essentially boys, in her charge must have seen, first with the rise and domination of Al-Qaeda and then, with the descent of the Arab Spring into chaos, Daesh, (or as the British knew them, Islamic State).

"I will pray for him," Salam vowed, nodding to her as he left, leaving her wanting to weep again. She had never even considered the existence of a god in her life, but in that moment, such a display of solidarity and thoughtfulness made her so overcome she had to grip the examination cot in front of her.

Suddenly, she wished that she had been brought up believing in a God. Perhaps then the prospect of life without Charles would not feel so entirely hopeless.

* * *

 _Love wins, y'all. Have a great day and be kind to one another. Please review with your opinions on my writing, please. I'm always SO THRILLED with long reviews._


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: This chapter is in memory of all those who have lost their lives in the last few days in the Philippines, Baghdad and, in particular considering the connections that the city has with Qasim in this universe, Kabul, at the hands of Daesh._ _I cannot fathom that kind of evil and it leaves me with so many questions._

 _Writing these chapters has been hard because I feel as though there is a pretty fine line between writing this kind of evil and making sure the story is realistic and writing something that's too hard to read. It's very difficult to write such violence and abuse when you've never experienced it._

 _As a result, I have been doing a lot of research. Massive thanks to the Reddit community for all the really insightful, personal threads of soldier's war stories. I also heavily read real people's stories on sexual assault and bullying in the Army and I was shocked to find how common it is. I'm hoping that this story can therefore draw some light to this fact through Molly. (I feel almost defensive over her... I adore Molly)._

 _The details surrounding Bashira are really fun for me... More will be revealed..._

 _The complaint process mentioned in this chapter is real. Forever grateful for the British Government website for all the documents they have available._

* * *

 **V**

* * *

She fell asleep in her pit after that, having been up since 04:30 hours to avoid the mid-day sun. She was awoken by the sound a voice she had come to dread calling for her from outside the women's quarters. She lay for a long moment and considered if she could get away with simply pretending he had not awoken her. Flashes of a time when she had considered such a thing on her first tour suddenly came to mind; when Bossman and the rest of Two Section had been indifferent and rude to her because she was new… and a woman. _I suppose we should be grateful you're not wearing your stilettos,_ Charles _,_ the smug bastard, had said as she had run out of the tent, rifle in hand… but still in her t-shirt and shorts. She had hated them all in that moment, sure she would never fit in with the section because the misogynistic bastards would never let her.

Thankfully, time had proven her wildly wrong.

She knew, with a chest aching and seizing with panic, that this same transformation could not happen this time.

She got up, still wearing her uniform, pulled on her boots and picked up her rifle, rubbing her crusty eyes as she exited the tent with a sudden, hardened resolve.

"Sir," she greeted Lawrence, standing to attention at the entrance to the tent but looking right past him so she would not have to meet his eye.

"James," he greeted, no doubt deliberately using the incorrect name.

"My name is _Dawes_ , sir." It wasn't, of course, it was James-Dawes on her army paperwork. That being said, no one called her James, since Charles was in the army too and went by that name. Everyone who knew her knew that, including Lawrence, the bastard.

He gave her a smile that looked menacing in its eagerness, as she stood unnerved as to what he was smiling at.

"My apologies, Dawsey," he corrected, smiling wider as though he knew how much more it would irk her. _No,_ she wanted to roar. _You do_ not _get to call me that!_ "Beck was wanting me to check you are coping."

She had to bite her tongue to keep from sniping at him for that, considering he had considerably contributed to her distress. She could feel her body shaking in his presence, much to her displeasure. She really hoped he didn't notice. "Yes, sir." She spoke through gritted teeth.

"You don't ever call me Boss," he observed, squinting in glare of the late afternoon sun. His Scottish accent made her skin crawl, now that she had memories of the icy, snide threats he had made in her ear. "Why?"

She refused to answer, knowing he was setting her up to mention Charles. Instead, she simply stared straight ahead, standing to attention.

"You call _Him_ it, don't you?"

She couldn't help but dart her eyes to his, knowing without being told that her glare was murderous. Suddenly, she didn't care if he saw her anger. After all, there was no regulation against _looks._ He was grinning in a manner that made her murderous. Around them, people were going about their business, particularly moving towards the scoff tent, but she was suddenly chronically aware of how alone she felt, even while surrounded.

Channeling as much of Charles' professionalism and nonchalance as she possibly could, she attempted to ignore him. "Do you have any direct orders for me, sir?"

He simply smiled, because they both knew he did not, as though he wanted to say something they both knew he shouldn't. She felt sick, knowing that he felt powerful after what he had done, that he drew _pleasure_ from her fear. She felt even more sick when she considered that, if she had _only_ had the balls to tell Charles what Lawrence had done, then she could have had the mess reported to a superior ranking officer by now. As it was, telling others while Charles did not know felt like the greatest betrayal.

Without another word, or waiting to be dismissed, she disappeared back into the woman's quarters; the one place left in the world where she now felt safe: where he could not follow her.

The next morning, Molly was moved to have finally received a letter from Qasim, the English professor turned interpreter she now called one of her closest friends. She had formed a strong bond with him incredibly early on in her first tour, as he had been quicker to be empathetic and kind to the new female medic as their interpreter than half of her own British comrades.

Bashira, the young Afghan girl that Molly had grown to love like a sister on her first tour – having been saved by Two Section from the bomb vest her father had forced on her for engaging with Molly – had been placed in safe, gated school in Kabul, away form her family and all others close to her that had been connected to the Taliban. Thanks to Molly's contribution of her first tour's employment money, and some more thereafter, Bashira had been able to remain, finally, in education, watched over from a safe distance by Qasim. However, Kabul was not the beautiful, vibrant place that Qasim had described that it had once been. He himself found he could not go back there; he could not teach there again after the Taliban blew up his house and killed his wife and daughter. The Taliban had viewed his career as treacherous, 'anti-Islamic', as he had taught English literature. Therefore, he was filled with sorrow one morning, not six months after she had made him sneak her into Kabul to see Bashira, as he announced to her that he had decided to leave Kabul and move south, though he refused to leave his country all together. She had been on leave between medic training tours when the call came, visiting Charles, her new fiancé.

She had panicked, _'What about Bashira?!'_ being the first thing she had cried. What he then explained was beyond her expectations: that he had family and his childless sister-in-law had agreed, wholeheartedly, to take Bashira in, if the adoption could be arranged. Qasim would always be a friend to her, but after this offer, she had wept with joy and called him so many incoherent names he had stopped being able to understand her.

Charles had found her curled up on his bed when he had arrived back from one of the last sessions of rehabilitation on his leg, lost in a haze of tears of joy and long, lost angst. She had not realised how long she had subconsciously been carrying worries for her own life and that of Bashira's until the burden of the latter was lifted from her. Charles had panicked of course, seeing her in unexplained tears. He may have liked to think he was a tough Army Officer, but he never did too well when she cried.

 _"Molly?"_ He had hurried to her, seeming to completely forget the slight limp he usually harboured after rehab sessions and instantly move to cradle her face so he could see her eyes. _"Fuck! Sweetheart, what's wrong?"_ She had smiled at him then, shaking her head and laughing at the utterly aghast look on his face, suddenly finding it all hysterical.

 _"Qasim rang,"_ she managed, moving to wipe her eyes and sit up. He had settled on the edge of the bed beside her, never letting her hands go, _soppy git. "His sister in law is only bleedin' takin' in Bashira!"_

Then it had been Charles' turn to laugh, more out of disbelief than because anything was funny. Instantly, he had given a bemused frown, a little disgruntled. _"Then why are you crying?! You know how much I hate when you cry, Dawesy!"_

Her humour had suddenly returned to her. _"Uh-oh – watch out, Bath! Bossman's got a sulk on!"_

He launched at her then, tickling her sides relentlessly, despite the fact he knew how much she hated it, squealing and screaming empty threats of violence.

 _"I feel attacked!"_ she cried, giggling as he finally heeded.

"I _feel attacked, coming in to a scene like that!"_ he had countered, though he was smirking again, seeming distracted by the sight of her heaving and mussed against his pillows. _"Please promise me never to cry again unless someone dies."_

She had managed to keep that promise, until five days ago, of course. She had heard nothing of Charles, no matter how much she begged Elvis when he rang.

"I can't tell you anything, Molly, because we don't have much of substance, yet." She had wanted to punch his smug, Northern face, but he wasn't here, so she settled for her pillow.

She had barely kept herself together. She hadn't wanted to cry down the phone to him, she didn't know him well enough and she didn't want to cry anymore. That being said, he was one of Charles' closest friends.

"Please," she begged, her voice softer than she ever thought it could be. "When you know, please ring…" Her eyes burned. "He doesn't deserve to get beheaded on ISIS' sick YouTube just for trying to save his medic." The mental image made her gag. "They think we're all the same; all mindless drones who kill for politicians with no care for their country and their people, but not Charlie; kind, sensitive fucking Charlie. He doesn't deserve to die––"

"––Molly," he halted, sounding almost as broken as she was. She instantly silenced. "I'll ring when we have something, okay? But I can't give details. I shouldn't even be discussing anything with you that hasn't been approved."

She nodded, forgetting he couldn't see her. "Thank you, Elvis," she implored. "I've been goin' out of my nut; I thought I was fragged before but this is some new level shit. I can't even eat, much less sleep."

He made a sound of understanding and sympathy, but sounded distracted. It was then, with a renewed wave of nauseating guilt, that she remembered she had forgotten Georgie had been taken, too.

"Oh, Elvis, she'll be alright," she assured instantly. "Really, she will. She's just as tough as Bossman, if not tougher – though you dare never tell him I said so." The joke fell limp in the tense silence between them.

"I know," was all he said. She supposed he felt even more regret and guilt than anyone, considering how he left things with her… and now he may never see her again.

–x–

On the third day of their imprisonment, delirious with hunger and thirst, Charles, with Lane not far behind, had been dragged from their makeshift prison and held at gunpoint as they were forced to record the blackmail message that would be sent to the British Army. There had been blood and dust on both their faces and looks of repressed terror in their eyes. One man, with pale, West European looking ethnicity and an auburn beard, had a look in his eye when he looked at Lane that made Charles want to launch at him. In that moment, he already knew what they were planning before they went through with it.

"Bring the _sharmuta,"_ the white masked man with the auburn beard had called, as the men around them started dragging Lane away. Instantly, Charles felt his adrenaline spike, because he knew that word: _whore_. He instantly flinched toward his friend, a roar of protest escaping his throat before he could stop himself. Around them, it triggered a kind of chaos, as Lane began to scream and the men began shouting in Arabic and jabbing him with their rifles as though he was a wild animal.

 _"No! Please!"_ Her scream sounded agonising, as he knew the hoarse nature of his own throat. "Boss!" she yelled, trying to fight them off. Her tears returned, though this time in terror. "Where are you taking me?! Please don't let them take me!"

Meanwhile, the pale masked man was laughing, moving towards Charles with the slow, heavy steps of an arrogant killer. He could feel his face twitching with anger as he was forced to still, a handgun now at his forehead. Fear spiked a heavy sweat across his skin, making his scalp prickle, almost as though he was suddenly freezing.

"Okay, okay! Alright!" he shouted, hands up above his head, as they continued to try and stoke fear and disorientation in him by shouting over him. He held in any pleas for his life, knowing he was walking a fine line between being subservient to stay alive and letting them hurt a soldier in his command. The pale figure stood over him as he remained on his knees. Lane was being hauled away, still screaming and fighting, but he could do little other than stare down the pair of blue eyes before him.

"Move one more inch and I'll decorate these walls with your brains," the stranger said. Charles was stunned to hear that his accent was English; no wonder he had such a fair complexion. His pulse spiked painfully as he tried to focus on his breathing rather than the cold barrel of the gun.

"You'd have one less bargaining tool," Charles replied, flatly, attempting to disguise his increasing fear.

The masked Englishman seemed to be somewhat amused by his courage, perhaps respecting him a little for it, as his gun lowered from his head to instead aim at his feet.

"No white man is half the bargaining power of a white _woman,_ " he warned. "But you know that."

He did know that, but it did not stop him from fighting for his life along with hers. He had vowed he would not leave Molly, and he intended to keep it.

They hadn't had any _time_.

"I bet you've grown quite attached to such a beautiful colleague."

Charles did not reply, only staring at him with all the visceral anger he knew he could not allow himself to release. Deep down, he felt smug that they all assumed his attachment to Lane extended past a professional capacity, because they could not have been more wrong to assume they were romantically involved.

"No?" The Englishman raised his eyebrows, visible above the mark that covered his nose and mouth. He seemed to put two and two together, as he suddenly withdrew something glinting from his pocket. There, hanging from his fingers, were both he and Lane's rings. "My brother assumes this is 'M'… But she isn't, is she?"

Charles blinked hard, feeling whiplashed by the reminder of home. Lane's screams had quietened somewhat as they had taken her a distance, but he could still hear them. He was suddenly struck with sympathy for all the English foxes that the families of his classmates made a hobby out of hunting when he was younger. He always remembered learning later that such canine descendants have a natural bodily reaction to being surrounded by flapping and chaos which made them lash out to kill until every last source of the flapping had stopped. To a human, of course, when the fox then only ate one of the livestock they killed and left the rest, this looked like senseless slaughter. But now, as he was surrounded by constant stimulation, noise, distress and panic with a stomach more empty than it had ever been, Charles understood. In that moment, had it not been for his duty to protect those in his command first, he too may have lashed out to the point of slaughter, in a desperate, rabid desire for some peace and stillness.

He did not know why they were so fascinated by his ring; perhaps because it was a simple way of getting under his skin. The masked Englishman smiled; a harrowingly cruel expression. "Well, I suppose you won't mind if our brothers take her for the whore she is, then."

Charles heard a familiar scream that rose goosebumps all over him, but louder, howling as though struck. He naturally flinched and moved to chase the sound without thought. Instantly, he was struck by a thick military-style boot, first to his stomach and then to his face as he was down.

 _"Don't,"_ he cried, desperate to make her suffering stop even as his own mouth was filled with the metallic tang of blood. "They won't bargain with you if you've hurt her. Please. Take me; let her go."

It was a hopeless plea, he knew. The Englishman lowered himself down to the dust, seeming to smile at him chillingly. "Why defend a whore if she is not even yours?"

Charles could feel his mind beginning to suffer the effects of his lack of sustenance, as he could not think past the harrowing sound ringing in his ears, reminding him that he had failed her. Her was her Commanding Officer. He could not let them rape her on his watch while he sat by and did nothing.

They simply laughed and spat at him, beginning to drag him back towards the makeshift cell alone. He knew he had moments only before he would be too late; they would have their way with her until she was half dead and he would never be able to forgive himself.

He thought back to Molly and all the times she lectured him about his _'bleedin' heroics'_ , his chest aching with sorrow to know that what he was about to do could hurt her most of all. _Forgive me, Molly,_ he pleaded under his breath as he realised there was no other way but to sacrifice himself.

"Wait!" he suddenly called, formulating a new plan in his head. "I'll tell you the truth! Stop them and I'll tell you."

The masked Englishman paused them, making them bring him back and dump him back on the chair on the hostage video set. He had a large machete in his hand, rotating it in his fingers, as cocked his head in seeming intrigue.

"Lie to us, try to play us, and I will cut your throat… and hers."

Charles attempted to regain his breathing, which had become erratic in his distress. _C'mon, James,_ he lectured himself. _Stay alive._

His mouth was so dry, he could feel his lips stick to his teeth as he spoke. "First, let her go."

He channeled his knowing, dominant tone he used often with new recruits. He held the man's eye, hoping to demonstrate his honesty. He was willing to die, he realised with sudden grim resolve, if it meant Lane would would get out of this. He did not want to die, in fact the thought made him want to weep for all he never had chance to say, all he never got to do, but he would do it. As her CO, he would do it.

The English jihadist narrowed his eyes, evidently weighing up his options. "You're certainly used to getting what you want."

"As are you," he replied without pause. "She cannot give you information further than helping your wounded... but I can."

This got his attention. He moved instantly to study Charles closer, even releasing a small laugh. "I suspected as much." His accent was northern, not too dissimilar to Lane's, Charles noted. He was evidently intrigued, as he hadn't yet moved. One more look at Charles' steely stern expression seemed to remind him that his captive was entirely serious.

"Bring the girl. Put her back in her chains."

Charles dare not breathe until he saw her again; they dragged her back through towards the makeshift shelter, through the structure in which their video set had been set up. She was visible shaken, her clothes torn, but she was alive and kicking still. Charles at least took heart from that.

She looked frightened, but mostly bemused at the sight of Charles having become the centre of attention.

"You're a solider," the man clarified, smugly, as she disappeared from sight. He pretended not to hear Lane's shouts and cries as she overheard. She instantly cried that they should take her instead, though one last fleeting look from Charles told her not to give herself up. He knew she would not do so; it would senseless for them both to die when only one must to save the other.

Charles' chest pounded as he opened his mouth, momentarily silent, as he knew once he spoke the truth, there would be no turning back.

"Yes; Commanding Officer of Two Section of her Majesty's Army." He said the words with solid pride, despite the fact they could, quite possibly, be his own death sentence.

The plan captor bowed in mock chivalry, before raising the point of his machete against Charles' throat, the point chillingly cool and sharp enough to already bite his skin.

"Get the camera," he ordered loudly, first in English then in Arabic. "We have a British soldier, my brothers."

–x–

That evening, after another exhausting day, Molly settled down to reply to Qasim's letter in her pit, but not before having a cuddle with Jackie after a very emotional phone call with Charles' mother.

"Are you sure you're alright, Molls?" she asked, taking a long, intense look at her friend as though she could sense something else was wrong.

Molly felt her throat close with the sudden threat of tears, but she swallowed them back instantly. A voice in her head screamed for her to relieve herself of the strain of her silence.

"Just proper bleedin' fragged," she whispered; it was hardly a lie. "His mum was proper lost; she could barely say any words and I ain't ever seen her like that in two whole years – she even rivals her son in her ability to chinwag!"

She had found she was suddenly awkward speaking to Alison this time, a feeling she had not had since they first met, thanks to her immense ability to chat and her consuming sweetness. Charles was so much like her in that regard. "I told her SF will find him, because what else could I say? But... what if they don't find him, Jack?"

She was in Jackie's arms again in an instant. "They will, Molls. Them SF are incredible at their job... and he's strong, your Charles. Strongest man I know by half."

The words were a comfort, since Molly knew she would not say such things if she didn't mean it. However, that did not prevent her own doubt from shouting just as loud.

The two women jumped at the sound of a hand knocking on the entrance to their quarters, the voice calling for Molly being one that, secretly, left her feeling gutturally unwell.

"It's Lawrence," she muttered to Jackie, standing in her civvies and walking out to answer him. At least he could do nothing while the other women were here.

Standing to attention, she gritted her teeth against her body's fear.

"Stand easy, Dawesy."

"Sir." The Scottish accent made her skin crawl, so she barely relaxed as she should have. He was smiling, as though he hadn't a care in the world.

"If you'll follow me, I believe we may have new intel of great interest to you."

Her gut told her there was no bleedin' hell's chance she should follow him anywhere, especially not in the dark... but her hopes rose at his words, as though her fears were suddenly nothing.

"From Al Shabaab?!"

He said nothing but raised his eyebrows, turn on his heel and move off. Instantly, she scrabbled back inside to retrieve her rifle, intent on following. Jackie's gaze as she rushed was one of first surprise, then puzzlement and questioning. However, Molly was too high on adrenaline to think, much less communicate. She could feel her pulse in her throat, overflowing her with jitters.

She heard Jackie calling out for her, asking where she was off to, but she moved off quickly into the night to follow him. It was stupid to do so, but she suddenly felt as though none of it mattered. She needed to know if Charles was alive.

However, instead of leading her to the Ops tent, he lead her down the darkened lane where the shitters were. Instantly, she couldn't breathe as she was choked by the memories of him threatening her, pushing himself inside her against her will, holding her against the metal until she had finger shaped bruises on her behind, a hand clamped over her mouth. She could still remember the pain so vividly that it made her want to vomit; her vagina still burned when she now went for a wee. After it had happened, she had instantly hidden in the toilets, praying for the bleeding to stop. When it had, there hadn't been much, she had thanked the universe and snuck back into her pit before anyone could spot her, not that the copper stains of blood could be seen on her black shorts if they had.

As a medic, she had instinctively risen at first light and tested herself for any infections, and, despite the fact it would be far too early to tell, for pregnancy too. All tests had come back negative, as she expected. She had also swabbed under her nails and even inside herself, collating as much DNA as she could in that hope that it would be admissible once she reported him. She put each swab in its own test tube and bagged them all in containment bags from her medical kit, hiding them in her drinking flask which she then found a hiding place for in the back of the medics communal mini fridge. No one could say she had not tried then, at least. She knew such cases without evidence could be heavily difficult to prove.

Each day, like clockwork, she had tested herself in private. Similarly, each day since he was taken, like clockwork, she had begun writing daily letters to Charles. That way, at least she was telling him the truth in some form, even if she she were never to actually speak to him again.

"Look at you, so eager," Captain Lawrence drawled beside her, crowding her once again in the dark shadows.

"No!" She warned, fiercely in a low voice. "Don't you _touch me!_ You said you had intel—You _said—!"_

 _"—_ You really thought your CO would be allowed to pass on such intel to a _Lance-Corporal_ who's _married_ to the hostage?"

Molly could feel her body shaking both with fury and fear, as her entire body coiled for fight. She would not give in, not again. She would fight this time because this time, she had nothing to lose.

"Get yo' fucking _slimey,_ Scottish hands _off me!"_ She struggled hard, hating herself when a whimper of panic and pain escaped her when his hands dug into her flesh.

He was laughing at her, his hands grabbing at her crotch again, when suddenly he froze in his place. A voice behind them made him jump backward.

"Back away, Sir."

It was Jackie's voice, hard and stern as Lawrence turned to face her. Molly was instantly elated with a kind of heady concoction of panic and relief, wanting to scream at the sight of her friend. However, she suddenly filled with fear for her friend when she realised Jackie was holding up her rifle, aiming at their CO with no look of regret.

"Corporal Ellis," he greeted, as though she were not threatening him with a deadly weapon. "How nice of you to join us. I was just explaining to Dawesy why seeking comfort in her CO will not work a second time."

Molly's chin hit the floor at his audacity. He had warned her he would take such a defence, should she have reported him; after all, she had an almost-affair with her CO once before. What such an arrogant twat would never understand, of course, is that what happened between herself and Charles could never be replicated, could never happen twice. She still hadn't the foggiest how it had managed to happen once!

One look from Molly and Jackie could see that their Captain's excuse was a lie. She knew her friends' intense, unprecedented affection for her husband; she had witnessed these affections grow and evolve into a beautifully tender and admirable marriage. There was no doubt in Jackie Ellis' mind that her friend would never consider betraying Charles James, not even as a solider, much less as a wife.

"Don't you _dare_ try to group yourself with such a _honourable_ Captain!" Jackie growled, never once lowering her gun. With a deep breath, however, she dragged her emotions back to remind herself of protocol. "Captain Lawrence, I am hereby informing you that Lance-Corporal Dawes and myself will be submitting a statement of complaint to the SO immediately senior to yourself under Article 120, sexual assault and or misconduct, of the Military Criminal Offences Act, who will then inform the Military Police. Step away from your subordinate before you make things worse for yourself."

Molly was frozen, watching the arrogance in his expression only dissipate a fraction, unnerved as to why he was still so confident. Perhaps he was simply delusional, she considered... or perhaps he truly thought his slander of her had legs. She felt sick at the prospect of finding out.

"Molly!" Jackie called softly, as though talking to a child, jolting her from her paralysis. "I think it's best we go and wake Captain Lawrence's CO, don't you?"

It was only then that Molly realised that in his arrogance, Lawrence hadn't remembered his rifle, as was regulation when outside on the base. No wonder he had been somewhat obedient at the sight of the barrel of Jackie's pointed at him.

He laughed somewhat, as though he did not believe her words were genuine, which made Molly's steps away from him all the more determined. With each step, she suddenly felt stronger, like she was leaving the mess he had made her in the shadows.

"I look forward to bringing you up on a charge for threatening a superior ranking officer, Ellis," he trailed after them. They were all being quiet, none wanting to make a scene, but at this threat, which seemed hollow at best considering the allegations he would face with an eyewitness on her side, Molly heard her friend openly laugh, falling into step behind her once Molly was a safe distance away.

Feeling sudden immense pride for her friend, Molly turned on her heel, walking backward and flashing the man who assaulted her a look of arrogant confidence she remembered Charles used to use on her, pretending to look concerned and confused. "That's curious, _sir_..." In such moments, she could swear she could almost channel Charles' confidence. Perhaps that would be his ultimate legacy in her life, before even love. Pure, unwavering _belief._ "'Cuz I din' see nothing."

* * *

 _YES, MOLLY, EH?_

 _Thank you so much for ALL your reviews. Please let me know what you think, and if you have Tumblr, do come over and have a lil fangirl with me over these two, because there really aren't many OG fans left there._

I promise you, Charles and Molly's angst will end... at some point. ;)

* * *

 **References for coming chapter themes:**

 **– Redress of individual grievances: Guidance to service complaints (JSP 831) | Ministry of Defence | UK Gov  
– Joseph J. Jordan | Definitions of Article 120, Rape, Sexual Assault  
** **– Reddit | _H_ _ow bad was/is the sexual harassment/discrimination you had or are facing? |_** **.com(/)r(/)AskWomen(/)comments(/396k8p/females_of_the_military_how_bad_wasis_the_sexual/?st=j354b4hr &sh=75ae1fe6**

 **– Reddit | Retired Soldiers _What was something that you saw or experienced that you never shared with anyone?_.com(/)** **r(/)AskReddit(/)comments(/)2n269n(/)serious_retired_soldiers_on_reddit_what_was/?st=j354x4s9 &sh=096ec603**


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Slowly and surely, it's coming, y'all. Don't you worry.  
_

 _Thank you so very much for all your reviews. It means so much to me that you're all so eager._

 _I have one correction I'd like to make. I mistakenly wrote that Charles was a Major in the earlier chapters, but I've realised the reason BBC Series 2 never made Charles a Major is simply because it would mean he wouldn't be out in the field with Two Section, because that's a Captain's role._

 _As a result, I've corrected my mistake and Charles is a Captain again. Hope this isn't confusing for anyone._

* * *

This chapter was heavily inspired by Dylan Thomas' famous poem, _'The Sunset Poem'_ from 'Under Milk Wood' Prose, read by Smurf and CJ in OG Series 1... because it says a poignant thing or two about life and death.

It's also a heavy exploration into the morals of Britain's foreign policy in the Middle East. Take from it what you will.

Trigger warning: slight references to rape. (Poor Molly).

* * *

 **VI**

* * *

"I've failed."

Charles had been sat, staring into nothing for so long he could no longer feel his behind. The constant presence of dust and dirt made him cough now and made his eyes weep aggressively. Beside him, Lane was a shell of herself, though her fight was still present in her eyes, which made him proud. "I failed all of you."

"That's not true, sir!"

Their speech was now just as slow as it was croaked, due to dehydration but also due to exhaustion. They hadn't been allowed to sleep, with militants clattering their weapons on the bars every time they almost drifted off.

He hadn't entirely been talking to Lane. If he was honest, he had forgotten she was even there, so much was the near-hallucinogenic haze that had descended over in his thoughts. It had been mere hours since they had been forced to record hostage videos in front of the Al Shabaab's black flag and, while he knew that the Army would be working like hell fire to track them, he couldn't stop hoping that Molly would never see it. He would hate for that to be the last version of him that she saw.

"Isn't it?" he croaked, tears leaking from his eyes. His entire body felt so exhausted, aching in every single bone and muscle, as he could practically feel his gut beginning to eat itself. "They assaulted a soldier in my charge and I couldn't stop them."

"You gave yourself up to stop them!" she admonished, her voice suddenly a lot stronger. "They're going to behead you! They _beat_ you! That don' sound like anything other than bloody brave to me."

Despite her belief, he felt little appeasement. All he could see was the disappointment he would cause when he did not come home.

"How could you do that, sir?" she whispered. "Respectfully, I can't go home without you."

"You will!" he replied forcefully, instantly moving enough to look at her as sternly as he could. "You _will_ make it out of here and you'll go home to Jamie and Two Section and you'll keep the cockwombles in line for me." He could hear his own voice wavering, though it now had nothing to do with his dwindling physical state. "And be there for Molly for both of us."

"Sir! Please don't tell me you've given up?! They'll come, sir! They've had the video for hours now – they must have."

He closed his eyes as he attempted to centre himself in the face of her optimism. He too had possessed an unwavering belief in the British Army when he had been in her shoes: a young Lance Corporal with no previous trauma to weaken resolve. It made him ashamed, to realise how far the traumas of war had changed him. Once upon a time, he would have scoffed in the face of a soldier who had given up as readily as he felt himself doing now, but, as he often repeated to his Section, war changed people unlike any other evil.

"They'll have it," he agreed softly, moving back to sit against the wall, groaning at the pain that raced through him. "But whether they find us with it alone is a lot more questionable, Lane."

"All the same, sir, you can't just accept defeat—"

"—What else would you suggest I do, Lane?!" he sniped harshly. It would have been a shout if it were not for the painful nature of his throat. "They were going to fucking rape you – I couldn't let that happen knowing there was something left I could do! I made a choice and now I'm trying to make my _peace_ with it." His lips, painfully cracked, were suddenly wet and he tasted salt. He was so chronically thirsty that he wondered how on earth he managed to still produce tears. Usually, he would be utterly aghast at such displays of emotion in front of one of his men, but after days of hunger, beatings and desperate thirst, such conventions fell away into insignificance. His breathing shuddered, as though there was a massive weight on his chest. " _Please_ let me."

–x–

The walls weren't so much closing in as crumbling altogether, or at least that's how it felt. Molly had no protection left. Her husband, her greatest friend, could be dead any day, beheaded by evil in the name of some God she knew diddly-squat about. Her family, Two Section, were 4,897 miles away and her Army, as her family seemed insistent on calling it, had become her jury.

Her courage had all but dissolved as she had stood outside Major Beck's private quarters, feeling the gravity of what she had been about to do. If it had not been for Jackie's hand around hers, she was sure she wouldn't have been able to go through with it.

"How did you know?" The question was simple enough, but almost a moot one, not that any of that mattered now.

"I didn't," she said, "until I saw that look on your face when I followed you."

Beck had been as shocked as he was prompt, to his credit. He instantly sent out men to formally arrest Captain Lawrence for sexual assault, pending a formal submission of a complaint and a later court marshal. He was to be sent home immediately on suspension while the military police carried out their investigation, which left Molly feeling so relieved she felt hollow. Beck assured that no one would know who the allegation had come from, aside from those superior who may need to, and as she wrote out her official letter of complaint, he gave a deeply troubled frown.

"Does James...?"

"No, sir," she replied, wishing her voice had not shaken so. Inwardly, she was ashamed. _I didn't have the balls to tell him, sir._

"Yes, well... That's probably for the best. The poor man will have enough to contend with at the moment... As do you."

She had smiled sadly at the man, a somewhat gentle but frank boss by Army standards. She had looked down at her statement, at the scrawl of her handwriting, and taken a deep breath, intent on casting away the dark turn her thoughts had taken. Beck halted as she moved to stand to attention.

"I do, as it happens, have something else concerning you that I had intended to inform you of, Dawes."

Terror instantly choked her, feeling like ice was suddenly running through her veins rather than blood. She focussed on the wrinkles around the man's eyes, counting them to keep from needing to sit. "What, sir?! Is it Charles—?"

"—Not to panic, Dawes. It's... a mixed development."

 _"Mixed,_ sir?" Molly was so emotional exhausted, she could barely comprehend what this could mean. "I'm not sure I have the floggiest what you mean, sir."

He lead her to the Ops tent then from the private administration tent they had been occupying and she was shocked to find it was a hive of activity. Bodies moved frantically, British, ANA and Special Forces, around maps and computer screens. The board that usually contained the layout of minefields was instead covered in maps she had not seen before and photographs of numerous men. She saluted to the other ranking officer before her, attempting to look more alert than she felt.

"We have received contact from the captors," Beck divulged, moving towards the laptop in front of him. "They sent it to us via our contacts at Al Jazeera... which does mean, regrettably, that news will most likely be with the western media by daybreak."

Molly could feel her heartbeat in her entire body as she stared at the men, unsure how to respond. Before her, one began operating the laptop, opening up a video file.

"While I would not normally recommend showing such footage to a Captain's next of kin... the media will soon have it. There is not much use in keeping it from you if it'll be on YouTube by morning." Beck's voice was matter-of-fact, but gravely sad. "That is, if you _want_ to see it?"

For a moment, she was conflicted. If it was a beheading video, she would have the image of her being murdered burned into her retina until the day she died, most likely driving her to madness with the horror of it. Similarly, even if it was a hostage video only, the image would leave her with no hope of sleeping until he was safe.

She quickly came to the conclusion however that watching his struggle was the least she could do, since Charles' own torture most likely dwarfed her emotional strife a thousand times.

Therefore, she quietly agreed and clenched her shaking fists as they moved to press play... and just like that here he was.

She didn't hear the choking noise of shock she made, much less bother to move wipe the first heavy tear, as the sight that greeted her was her husband's eyes. It seemed he was looking right at her, staring down the lens as though it were the barrel of a gun. He was hurt, bloodied, bleeding from his mouth, hairline and even his nose and his face looked sallow. Angry looking bags marred the underneath of his eyes, which were bloodshot and lined with red. His curls, that she had always loved so much, were matted on his head and covered in a thick layer of moon dust much like that one could find in Afghan. She wanted so much to look away, his eyes were filled with such fury and longing it made her paralyse with fear for him, but she found she could not.

After the captors paraded their bollocks of victory in introduction, they thrust a newspaper into his hands. He was sat, a black Al Shabaab flag his only backdrop, with his hands tied. As he began to speak, his beautiful, usually so very powerful, voice becoming the mouthpiece for evil, she felt as though she might be sick.

"My name is Captain Charles James and I am a British citizen and soldier for the British Army. I am, thanks to the interference of my government and my country in Kenya, now being held by Al Shabaab, along with a medic, Georgie Lane."

Molly's heart was hammering so loud, she could barely hear him croaking voice. "They know he's a soldier!" she gasped to herself, folding her arms around herself.

"We found his dog tags hidden in the abandoned ambulance, along with Lane's, so we are unsure what gave him away," Captain Azizi informed her, his expression grave. He had been here when the base had been Bastion, on her first tour. She knew he had been fond of Charles.

On screen, Charles held up the newspaper to prove the date and authenticity of the video before coughing and continuing. "Release all Al Shabaab fighters held by allied forces or—" He haltered and that is when Molly saw it: the undeniable realisation that the end was coming. She had seen such absolution in his eyes before, when they had both mistaken thunder for a fatal blast and when he had been bleeding out on that Afghan bridge. He had cried out for her then, her fist in his abdomen as he had grabbed at her to get her attention. He had cried her first name twice, which he had never spoken before that moment, eyes pinched with agony and glassy with a kind of acceptance that could only ever be possessed by a dying man.

She was suddenly in desperate need for something to hold onto, feeling her knees shaking beneath her combats as her hand darted out to grab the edge of the table.

"Or—" He faltered, the undeniable tone of panic and sorrow in his voice, along with a hint of tears he held back. An aggressive Arabic order could be heard from behind the camera and Molly was horrified as she watched her husband, a man she herself always credited to being so calm and _sure,_ violently flinch. "Or I will executed at sundown... in the name of Al Shabaab's fight for Allah and the Caliph."

All the walls she had once had around her, built out of love and service and comradeship, crumbled the day her body was taken against its will.

With this final blow to her founding pillar, the very ground she walked on felt as though it was giving way too, sinking from beneath her feet. Her senses were now debunked, as she perceived nothing, no sights or sounds or touch, and felt nothing other than panic. Her voice was whispering of its own accord, the continuous repetition entirely without her knowledge.

" _O let us see another day..."_

She fled the Ops tent somehow, completely unaware of once all important regulations.

 _"Bless us all this night, I pray..."_

With such obliterating desolation and loneliness, it was a wonder she made it back to her pit at all.

 _"And to the sun we all will bow..."_

There, as Jackie cradled her like she used to cradle her baby brother, her senses began to return. As she struggled to breathe or form a single coherent thought, she found herself repeating words she did had not known she remembered; foreign and poetic verse that had taken root somewhere when she was in a green field in Newport, long ago; memories of a past life, of idealism and tragedy and 'perfect'. They were fragments of what was... and what now may never be again.

 _"And say, good-bye – but just for now..."_

–x–

Georgie was silent for a long time. Then, she sighed with a heavy resignation and when she did speak, her own voice was tearful again – this time as though in hopelessness. "How can I _possibly...?"_ She halted herself as she dragged in another breath. "If I go home without you, Boss, how could I ever, _ever_ face her?!"

With a deeply furrowed brow and a rigid spine, Charles could feel his very skeleton shaking as he attempted to swallow back the tidal waves of gut-wrenching sorrow that threatened to swamp him. Memories of Molly were now impossible to ignore, as she was all he seemed to have left to anchor himself to. Desperate hunger and stifling despair left his skull feeling at though it were made of lead.

"I told you," he replied, hastily trying to wipe his eyes, but the tears he banished were instantly replaced with more. "She won't blame anyone more than she'll blame herself," he sighed, regrettably. "And me."

Georgie watched her boss' face crumple, engulfed in an emotion which he could clearly barely contain. Regarding him, she considered how much the expression looked like one of grief _._

"I can't stop seeing her face," he heaved, pulling at his tangled curls and snuffling. "I vowed that I wanted her to be last thing I see, on our first tour. But now..."

Georgie was uncomfortable, both for being unable to comfort him, but also because she was suddenly chronically aware of the inadequacies of her own relationship. She wasn't sure Jamie had ever declared a vow to her over anything.

"I never told her," he mumbled introspectively, "how much I loved her – well, I did, I tried, but I can't help feeling as though it wasn't enough. I should have told her everyday, every time she cackled or called me a Rupert for deliberately saying something she would not entirely understand." Somehow, he managed to smile. "Tell Jamie as much as you can when you return, Lane," he instructed firmly, only to raise his eyebrow at her in a weak attempt at humour. "That is, if you mean it."

"Why wouldn't I _'mean it'?!"_ she challenged hotly. "If y'meaning I still love Elvis, you can, _respectfully_ of course, fuck off, sir."

Somehow, he found he could not quash the laughter that bubbled from him; the effect of sudden hilarity heady and exhausting in equal measure. "Quite right, Lane. Apologies."

After their laughter died, there was a long, unquantifiable period of quiet between them, as they had seemingly been left simply to starve by their captors, only tormented every few hours to prevent sleep. As she stared into the dusty haze of the steaming open desert air, Georgie found herself humming in her increased exhaustion and delirium. It wasn't until Charles heaved out a heavy sigh of dejection that she realised what the song was: none other than his well known favourite.

"Your wedding song," she whispered.

"Yes." When she looked over, he was smiling, no more new tears on his cheeks. "I wept like a baby after they sang that for me," he divulged wistfully, thinking back to one of his most precious memories as he and his new wife had found solace and grounding in one another in the corridor. Hidden from the rest of the world, they had grappled with their immense good fortune in finding a kindred spirit in one another; the rarest kind of treasure in life for which wars were fought and minds were lost.

"Every soldier has a weakness, sir."

"So, why is it that mine always feel so detrimental?" he wondered aloud.

"P'raps that's just the price we pay for the ultimate kind of love."

Struck with force by her statement, he recalled the husband he had become the second time. Instead of the military husband who outgrew his civilian wife as he had been, he had become a man lucky enough to be in a marriage of equals, despite his superior position. That being said, he had become wrapped up in an intense need to protect Molly, despite the fact she was a woman whom, simply on principle, refused to be protected. Still though, he could not have been more insistent to do so. He could not help himself; puffing his chest when they had run into her 'cock-face' ex – Molly's words, not his – and standing up for her when all those rigid and conventional at his parents Christmas drinks tried to belittle her.

It was true: they all had weaknesses.

Before his fifth tour, by which time he had lost his first wife, if someone had asked him if he had weaknesses, he would have said that he only had one.

His thoughtful and beautiful son had been an awakening of a very universal kind of love: a steadfast, enduring and constant kind of admiration simply at his boy's ability to grow and learn and thrive. However, with the rollercoaster of his fifth tour, Molly awoke in him a whole new, much more unique kind of love, one so intensely fervent and all-consuming that it had left him with a brand new kind of weakness, too.

He had once been a stickler for the rules, but Molly instilled in him an allegiance that had grown to rival any other.

He would have built the world for Sam, out of an enduring, unchanging love and sense of parental duty. But for Molly, his love was much more volatile. He knew, as he looked out into the wilderness, that he would tear down whole kingdoms if they took her from him.

The darkness of the world made him afraid. Yes, mostly for Sam and what kind of place it will be for him to grow up into, but in the immediate, it mostly made him terrified for Molly. Not that he would ever usually admit it, but this silence terror often made him arrogant, storming around in an often patriarchal and territorial manner whenever he felt threatened. It made him stubborn and unable to admit he was wrong. But mostly, it made him want to cling to those he loved, lock them away and never let them go. He never admitted it to her aloud, but saying goodbye to Molly as she went off to war had been one of the hardest things he was sure he would ever do.

"I booked a surprise trip to visit Bashira for after we both got back; she lives in Oman now. I have always loved to see the joy on her face when she's with that girl." He wheezed, choking on desert dust. "I never told her." He paused, unable to divert his thoughts away from imagining Molly's despair, should he never return. "It used to do my head in that she couldn't let things go. _God_ , I was so blinded by fear of losing her, I couldn't see that she was right not to. It _was_ our place to care about each small cog, otherwise how else would we have any hope of making the greater war zone any better?"

Georgie's voice was sure where his was hollow. "She always says she wishes she could live out there – in Afghan I mean."

"She loves it, especially up in the mountains," he agreed wistfully. "If only there could be peace in Afghan; I'd build her a house up there in a heartbeat if I could." Memories flashed of a very green Private Dawes beside him at the mountain CP as she had chatted away about the land's beauty into his ear, made him ache. "I'd have moved heaven and earth to make her happy."

"She was happy, sir," Georgie assured sadly. "She told me all the time."

For this, he was eternally relieved. They may have had no time, but at least the tiny amount they did have had eventually been everything he hoped it would be, for both of them. "And now, I can only hope she can find happiness without me."

–x–

Molly barely slept at all, haunted by the look of resolution and foreboding in Charles' eyes. At daybreak, she rose, accepting she would never find rest now, and was checked over officially by Jackie for a medical report regarding her assault. It was comforting for it to be carried out by Jackie, but all the same, it made her eyes burn with tears of shame as her bruising was photographed and vagina was swabbed and inspected for injury.

"Are you in pain?" Jackie asked as she covered her friend back up. "You seem to have some heavy bruising and swelling up there, but thankfully very little tearing. It should heal on its own, but just be careful not to overdo it."

Molly gave her the swabs she had taken from the mini fridge silently before re-dressing and accepting the big hug she offered.

"You'll be alright, Moll," her friend whispered again her ear, leaving her gripping onto Jackie for dear life to keep the hug going longer.

"I'm so sorry I didn't tell you," she whispered, bowing her head into Jackie's shoulder. "I just can't seem to... How will I tell—?"

Suddenly, it was a though she had momentarily forgotten that Charles wasn't just a phone call away. The realisation was a like a blow to the chest and she instantly let the words drop. Jackie looked undeterred.

"He will understand. The truth is all that matters."

Molly liked to think that that were true, but doubt had taken seed in her mind and was spreading like a virus. As she wiped her eyes, intent on beginning her day despite the fact it was only just 04:30 hours, she was met by Beck, who had a surprising order for her.

"You want to send me on R&R, sir?"

"Decompression," he corrected, squinting in the early morning sun. "The Army does have a policy of compassion, Dawes, and if ever it should be implemented, I think it's safe to say, it is now."

Molly felt instantly panicked; the last thing she wanted was to be sent back to England without Charles, where his terrified, gaunt face would be plastered on every screen while she had nothing to do but sit and slowly go mad.

"I can't, sir!" she breathed instantly, the words flying from her mouth at lightening speed. "I can't go home, not while—" She found she could not even say it. "I'll be alright now Captain Lawrence has gone, sir— _and_ what about my trainees, sir?!"

His hands were gesturing for her to calm even before he managed to cut her off. "Dawes! Dawes – you misunderstand. I want to send you for decompression in _Kenya..."_ Molly knew her expression must have been one of bemusement, as she tried to grapple with what he was suggesting, as his words were sad slowly, interspersed with pauses, as though she might struggle to understand. "With Two Section," he clarified, just in case she had not made the connection. She had, of course, but she had dare not let herself believe it. "Their tour is drawing to a close prematurely, but only by a week – what with the crisis surrounding Captain James and Lane."

Molly could feel her heart beginning to race, but for the first time in a week, it was triggered by the heady thrill of anticipation rather than terror and panic. Looking into Beck's face, she could he was tired, but mostly that he was pleased to be the barer of good news at this difficult time.

"You are to report to Corporal Kinders upon arrival in Mombasa, who will escort you to the hotel, from which you will officially be on compassionate leave." Molly was surprised she could even hear him over the rushing of blood in her ears. "After decompression, your complaint of redress SO will be in contact with you regarding the investigation surrounding Captain Lawrence, along with the Police, of course. You will also need to report to your allocated psychologist, who can assess the extent to which these events may have affected you. Tell them everything, Dawes, and do not hold back." His voice had lowered upon broaching this subject, as around them people were going about their business with the start of another day. "Transport will arrive in an hour to take you to the hanger."

"Yes, sir," she acknowledged, gritting her teeth to push back all her emotions. Giving him a grateful smile, which he returned, she suddenly felt a fraction lighter. In his kind expression, she recognised familiar glimmers of a sweet disposition much like that Charles' possessed... as much as he liked to pretend he did not. "Thank you, sir."

"No need for thanks, Dawes," he replied, indicating for her to stand to attention as he moved to leave. "Your courageous behaviour is a testament to the soldier you are – well done."

She could not look him in the eye as he said it, because she knew she would find pity there and she did not want to be pitied. But, mostly, she struggled to understand how anything could feel like a victory while Charles' life still hung in the balance.

–x–

The anticipation was heady as the military plane landed; her hands were clammy and her mouth dry in as much anxiety as excitement. It had been a long while since she had been able to spend time with Two Section and usually she did so without Charles, simply because him being their Boss still made certain types of socialising not entirely appropriate. This time though, she would have to face them in the knowledge that they all felt a loss, one so paramount and detrimental to their team that she was not entirely sure she would recognise the personalities she might find in that hotel.

At the sight of Eggy waiting for her, she was so gutturally relieved to see another familiar face that she had to remind herself she was still in uniform, as she almost dropped her kit and threw herself at her friend. His eyes were round with an unspoken sadness and his jaw had been set with worry, but even he managed to crack a smile as she stepped into the hanger and stood to attention. She now found she was struggling to see clearly as her vision and warped misted with developing tears, but she smiled all the same. As he companied her to the armoured vehicle, he tried to offer small talk, but they could both feel it was useless.

"I tried to tell him not to go," he said gravely, fidgeting with his beret.

Instantly, she found herself laughing. "You thought you'd tell the Bossman what to do, did ya?" she teased, though her chest never stopped aching with an agony she so desperately tried to pretend was not there. "I'm sure that went down well."

Eggy, not the kind for as many jokes as she was, looked rigid and uncomfortable. He evidently took on some of the blame, despite the fact they both knew, as someone under Captain James' charge, there was nothing he could have done is the tossed decided to be a hero.

As they arrived at the hotel, protected both at the gates and at the door by Kenyan National Army with guns, Molly felt her chest tighten even more.

"I didn't tell them you were comin'," Eggy said as he helped her pull her kit from the vehicle. "Thought it might be a nice surprise for 'em."

All Molly could do was nod, as she made her way through the shining white lobby and towards the room indicated on the key that had been placed in her hand. She found her gaze was trained on the floor in front of her as she walked, as though she did not want to catch the eye of anyone who may pass in case they knew her. She was not sure why, but the moment she was alone in her hotel room, she felt more at peace. Strange, considering she had spent the last week avoiding being alone with her thoughts at all costs. Perhaps it was simply that if she faced Two Section, her dearest friends, she would have to face not only their sadness, but also her own despair, when there was a inescapable six foot absence amongst them where Charles should be.

Instead, as slowly as she should, she unpacked her bergen, meticulously folding each item of clothing in squares like Charles always did. (He had lectured her on her folding skills to the point she had found herself picking up his technique just to shut him up). Then, she stripped of her uniform and stood before the bathroom mirror.

She was hot and sweaty, dusty and in desperate need of a shower, but what most struck her about her reflection, which she had not seen properly in a long while being on a base in Afghan, was how tired she looked, and gaunt too. It was only then that she realised how little she had eaten, not only since the assault but also, and most notable, since the taking of Charles. Perhaps it was trauma, perhaps it was a kind of grief; either way, Molly simply could not muster the will to care. Despite the fact Charles would lecture her into next week, she had not the energy to worry about herself with the amount she was currently spending worrying about him... and trying not to fall apart.

Angry hand print bruises, now beginning to fade, still marred her thighs and she felt physically sick as she looked at them, realising she would not be able to strip down into a swimsuit for a while, not that she would have anyway.

All that was left on her body was the cord that held her wedding and engagement rings around her neck. It felt heavy as she stared at it, as though the rings and their significance had tripled. Slowly, she slipped the cord off and slipped the rings back in their place on her left hand.

As she stepped into the shower, the water drumming against her back and soaking her hair, she watched the grime and dust of Afghan swirl and disappear down the drain, somewhat mesmerised by it. Her legs, desperately in need of a shave and moisturising, ached and her shoulder was sour, but mostly all she could still feel the chafe and burn of her most private anatomy under the hot water. It made her eyes burn with shame as she felt it, a reminder of how a brute of a man had decided to brand her against her will, like a possession, marking her forevermore as 'the girl who was raped'. No longer would she be 'That medic that saved Smurf' or even 'That medic who married her Captain'. Now she would be: 'that girl who was raped by her boss... and reported him'.

Finding herself thumbing the rings, she could feel the engraving, delicate and secret, beneath her touch.

 _I told you I wouldn't always be your boss... but let's face it, I was already yours. C._

The funny thing had been that these poignant words had been put on the ring long before their wedding day, and therefore long before she had said something very similar tearfully as they had hidden away from their own reception. She hadn't even noticed the engraving until that evening. They had been lounging in their honeymoon suite, discussing the humour in what she had chosen to engrave on his ring and how utterly bizarre their rings would seem out of context to their great-grandchildren some day.

"You think about that?" she had asked softly as she brushed her hair with a beautiful view of Bath before her. Turning, she had found an even more beautiful view in their bed in the form of her new husband, nude as the day he was born and lounging against the head board.

"Of course I do, Dawesy." He'd pulled her back to him somewhat ungracefully before grasping her hand to kiss it, once like he had on their first date and again over her ring. "I always have been a little previous, have I not?"

In the loud drum of the shower drowning out the world, she realised this was the first time in weeks she had been entirely alone. In a panic, as she tried her best to recall that heavenly memory, she suddenly found she could not picture him with the detail she once had memorised. Had it really been so long since she had seen him that she could not remember whether his cowlick curled to the left or the right? Or whether his crooked smirk curled this way or that? On their wedding night, they had spoken at great length of the life they hoped they would have together, masking in the naive and hopeless romance of the unknown, as long as they had each other. Leaning her forehead against the tiles, the tears that began falling merged with the hot water as it curled pathways down her face. They had even spoken of having children, after she had grown war weary and wanted to settle. She had pretended not to keen on the idea and so had he, but now she yearned for that moment back again, just so she could leap at the opportunity with open arms.

She had not wanted to admit it to herself because she was shit scared into next week at the idea of being a mum, but she did want to have Charles' baby. She wanted to hold a piece of him in her arms even when he was not there. She wanted to nurture something that they made and watch them grow into a little version of him, just like Sam was. She wanted to be so irreversibly connected to him. She craved such intimacy, such ties of family.

Now, all that would be an impossibility.

A alien sound of despair met her ears and it was only after a long moment she realised it had come from her. The long wail of a sob was a kind of sadness she had never exhibited before, not even when she lost Smurf before her eyes. She clasped a hand over her mouth in the hope of curbing it, of pushing her desolation back into the metaphorical box she had been trying to push under metaphorical stairs.

Somehow, she ended up leaning against the tiled wall with her head on her knees, finally letting herself give up the effort of looking 'okay', just for a little while.

* * *

 _Please review, y'all and let me know what liked in the chapter and why. I promise resolution in coming soon for our favourite couple._


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: I cannot thank you all enough for all the lovely long reviews I got after putting the chapter up yesterday. It was hard to write, but this was harder, so I hope it lives up. Yes, things are desolate, but the light at the end of the tunnel is here, my friends._

 _I'ms so honoured you say my take on these characters is so true to OG. That means so much to me because I think Seres 1 characters in particular were wonderful._

 _I'm a little poorly today so please do keep up the reviews! They made me so thrilled! Especially the long ones._

 _Massive thank you to Reddit for war stories and to one of my favourite Nottingham bands, **London Grammar** , for all the inspirational sounds while I'm writing. (They were also about 80% of the OG Series 1 soundtrack, for those of you who didn't know. Check them out if you like soundtrack-esque Roxy music. They're great). _

* * *

_"Every morning when I wake,_  
 _Dear Lord, a little prayer I make,_  
 _O please do keep Thy lovely eye_  
 _On all poor creatures born to die_

 _And every evening at sun-down_  
 _I ask a blessing on the town,_  
 _For whether we last the night or no_  
 _I'm sure is always touch-and-go._

 _We are not wholly bad or good_  
 _Who live our lives under Milk Wood,_  
 _And Thou, I know, wilt be the first_  
 _To see our best side, not our worst._

 _O let us see another day!_  
 _Bless us all this night, I pray,_  
 _And to the sun we all will bow_  
 _And say, good-bye – but just for now!"_

–– **Eli Jenkins' Prayer** from _Under Milk Wood_ , by **Dylan Thomas**

* * *

 **VII**

* * *

As Molly made her way out to the beach later, she was dressed in board shorts and one of Charles' old University of St. Andrews t-shirts. She had to sit and stroke it for a while when she had found it in the bottom of her bergen, folded into a forgotten pocket. She had instantly held it to her face, inhaling deep, but was mournful to find it hardly smelt of him anymore. She usually tied it at the waist so it didn't drown her so much, but today she felt liberated by how it swapped her, reminding her of her husband's size and strength, while also hiding her body from the world. In her current state, she never wanted anyone to see her bare skin ever again.

By the time she psyched herself up enough to face Two Section, she felt somewhat numb, having cried out what felt like her enough body weight in tears. Predictably, she heard the group's loud voices and banter before she even caught sight of them.

"I'm trying to tell a story!" she heard Baz strop, his classic line raising an unexpected grin on her lips.

"Yeah, well, maybe that's why no one's listening, Baz, mate," she heard Brains chuckle.

Creeping towards where they were sitting around a beach campfire, it was Brains that saw her first. He squinted in the afternoon sunlight, evidently doubting it was her. She tried to grin at him, but the expression felt forced and her chin wobbled.

"Molly?!" he yelled, triggering each of the familiar faces to whip round to look for her. "Holy shitballs, lads! It's Molly!"

"Alright, cockwombles!" she replied, unable to help herself. She had always hidden behind humour after all.

They all held looks of disbelief as they raced towards her with the bounce and vigour of little boys, impacting into her in a rather painful group hug. Instantly, she had to bite back more emotion, instantly frustrating herself. Hadn't she cried enough already?!

"What are you doin' here, Molls?! How'd you swing that one?!" Baz cried, still wearing a ridiculous hat like the last time she had seen him.

"Maybe because her husband is the Boss, Baz," Fingers reminded through gritted teeth, as though indicating for Baz to be quiet. She laughed, sniffing hard and shaking her head, already sensing what she had most hoped would not happen, as they were not sure how to cope around her.

"It's alright, Baz," she assured softly, finishing hugging each of them, squeezing and swaying with the vigour of each embrace. "Beck sent me on leave, you know, since the Bossman decided to be a hero." The group collectively sniggered at that comment, since he wasn't around to lecture any of them for it.

"Good one on the Major, eh?" Eggy called with a soft smile as he guided the group back to sit down.

"Yeah, he's a good egg," Molly agreed, gratefully accepting the beer offered to her. "Speaking of Bosses, who's your casualty replacement Captain? The Rupert not spending time with you all?"

 _"She_ is up on the wire London, keeping up to date on Bossman. Won't tell us nowt, o'course." Brains answered, sounding somewhat bitter. It was unsurprising that they felt their new boss did not cut it. No poor sod ever could when they had Charles to be compared to.

Molly was dumb suddenly at that comment, reawakened to the reality that so much was going on about which she was not allowed to know. She watched the sun moving across the sky all day with a feeling of chronic sickness and panic, knowing that when it hit the horizon in this time zone, it would mark not only end of a day, but the end of her life as she knew it. Looking around her, she knew only Eggy was aware of the impending timer of doom their Section was facing. His eyes were pitched as he tried to make sure his Section focused on resting and recuperating. The last thing he needed, after all, was panic and despair amongst all ten of them.

The new recruit, Monk, however, seemed to sense something, too. He was looking around his new Section, evidently seeing the change in them magnified since he had only known them a short while. Molly watched him watch his Corporal and felt him watching her as he pretended not to watch her too. She wanted to smile at him and tell him not to feel uncomfortable about enjoying this free little holiday, but she couldn't find the words.

Thanks to the western press and their appetite for misery and shock, their little fragile peace only lasted half an hour longer, after which the hotel wifi gave Baz the news she had hoped would stay secret. The others had all been snoozing, now on sun loungers around the pool, or playing beach football. She had found herself chewing her nails in the shade, never one for enjoying much sunbathing, when Baz had wondered up to her in silence, a blank look of shock and resignation on his face that she recognised the moment she saw it.

The others noticed too, since their banter and side comments towards his football skills went unanswered, as he instead moved like a zombie toward where she was. Looking up at him as he held his iPad in hand, she knew the word was out.

"Is it true?"

She pressed her lips together to keep from letting out another inhuman sound of grief. Instead, she simply nodded, unable to look him in the eye. One or two of the others, Mansfield and Brains, had gathered, asking copious questions that soon turned into demands for an explanation. She could hear the panic in their voices and knew that they already assumed what it was about, but needed to hear the tragedy to entirely believe it.

Thankfully, Eggy Kinders stepped forward from his lounger, kind giant that he always had been, and took a shaking heavy breath. "Al Shabaab have released a video, featuring Georgie, but mostly the Boss."

Instantly, Brains hollered the others over with an urgent call. They came instantly, with not one joke between them; the Army certainly taught one the ability to read tones of voice. Mansfield and Baz were already sitting on her lounger, comforting her simply by their close proximity, while the others gathered around almost as though in a Ops tent briefing.

"They've said he'll die tonight," Kinders continued, stealing his gaze in a way that reminded her starkly of Charles. "If the Army don't release all Al Shabaab fighters they're holding."

She stared at the rings on her finger as she listened to their deafening silence, the only sound being a collective sound of quiet disbelief.

"But the British Army don't negotiate with terrorists—" Mansfield gasped in realisation. Around him, the group burst into cries of 'Shut up, Mansfield!' most likely worrying that she was going to explode or shatter before their eyes. Instead, she finally looked up at them, her dearest friends in the world, and managed to smile.

"No, it's alright. He's only sayin' the truth, an' what are we, without the truth?" Ignoring the tear that fell, her smile widened as she began thinking back on all the time times Charles had lectured her on belief. "Bossman wo'nt want you to not enjoy this beautiful place just because he had to be a hero," she said, though her voice sounded strange. It was only then that so much effort was going into her keeping her own despair under control, she had forgotten to take a breath.

"The SF are working hard, Dawesy," Eggy assured, clapping his nearest friend, a very uncharacteristically quiet Fingers, on the back. "They'll get them back."

"Yeah! Shabaab ain't got nothin' on the Special Forces, Molls!" Brains interjected kindly, trying his best to sound sure.

Looking around at their faces, she suddenly felt lucky. At least if she were to lose her only love and her good friend in one horrific day, she would have her real family with her to help pick the pieces of her when she hit the floor. After all, holding herself together was becoming far more exhausting than she dare admit. Therefore, she let herself become old Molly, just for a little while, because old Molly had one very easy solution for tragedy. "Drinks then, yeah?"

–x–

Those who ordered Elvis and his men to rescue Captain Charles James and Lance-Corporal Georgie Lane evidently had not done their research. If they had, they would have never sent the man whom was best man for one and jilted the other at the alter. As it was, however, as Elvis had touched down in Kenya a few days before when he had opened the intelligence file. He felt physically ill when he had opened it and realised Primary One and Primary Two being non other than the two people that meant everything to him in the world. Add to that that Charles' Molly had been in contact with him, begging him to save her husband as though he did not so desperately want to save his best friend just as much, and he felt almost out of his depth.

He had known he was in charge of the rescue by the time she had called him, but he had simply been unable to tell her. Not only would it make him break even more advisory regulations than he already was, but it would add a pressure to his shoulders that he did not need. He did feel guilty, leaving her in the dark, but he told himself it was what was best. She would be told of the rescue mission soon enough by her CO anyway.

The Kenyan Special Forces had received intelligence from an anonymous source indicating that a white man and woman in military medical uniform had been seen in a truck driving south, ten miles from James and Lane's last known position. From there, military drones had flown high above and scoured for sight of them.

When no sightings had come back, Elvis had begun to feel the uncomfortable chill of panic. They had not expected Al Shabaab to know of Captain James' position and it was a mystery to them as to how they knew of his and not Georgie's. Elvis, knowing Charles so well, had his own theories, of course. He assumed his friend had done the most predictable of Charlie behaviour and played the hero. While admirable, he and Molly for once saw eye to eye on this matter in both feeling frustrated and angry at such behaviour. After all, he seemed to have little regard for his own safety where his Section were concerned.

This now meant that there was a countdown in place. Elvis worked closely with the Kenyan SF from the moment the video came in, realising that sleep would not be an option. On wires with London and Brize, he soon realised that they had very little to go on. They had a massive surface area to search via the Air Force's drones and less than eighteen hours to do so. As each kilometre was searched with little information and the sun rose, he began pacing. They contacted their contact at Al Jazeera again, pleading for something more. Meanwhile, the foreign secretary's office had been on the wire from Whitehall, along with senior military advisors to parliament and embassy leaders. All demanded that which all in the Army already knew: under no circumstances did the British Army negotiate with terrorists... no matter the cost.

In a crumpled heap on a makeshift floor covered in desert moon dust, Charles considered the impending doom that now faced him.

Days ago, he'd had spirit. He had fought back as tactfully as he could; he had tried to memorise the movements of the truck for an entire twenty four hours when they were first taken hostage. He predicted they were south east of their last known position, but there was no way for him to be sure.

Now, as he cowered with a course hood over his head, he felt himself slipping, as though attempting to climb a cliff-face as it suddenly turned to mud.

He had been dragged from his cell in the early hours of the morning, hazed with exhaustion, silently apprehensive as to what they could have in store for him. They had said he would be put to death at sunset, and yet it was barely even sunrise as he was hooded and thrown down in the dust. They shouted at him, surrounded him, rending him completely at the mercy of their torment. He recognised such techniques instantly as very predictable forms of torture: rouse disorientation and fear until reality is forgotten.

It soon became clear to him that they were doing this simply out of sadistic pleasure rather than because they wanted copious amounts of information from him. As the furious voices didn't stop, he found himself shouting back, attempting to ask them what they wanted from him.

Suddenly, his heart had stopped dead as they had abruptly pulled a hood over his head, rendering him blind. This could only mean he was being moved... or even worse was coming.

"Up!" A voice ordered, but he had so few bearings and so many thoughts, he didn't cooperate quick enough. "Up!" the voice screamed, yanking his body up. He was thrust forward and told to stand still. He had so little energy, he could barely stop his legs from shaking under his own weight. His long-standing Army training sent his nerves haywire as there was an unspoken presence behind him.

"Hands on the wall, soldier scum," came a familiar British voice, setting his nerves on edge as he twitched towards the voice, somewhere just off from his right ear. The British captor from the previous day was back and he was the one that Charles feared most, considering he had almost ordered his men to do... god knows what to Lane.

"I told you," he tried to reason. His voice was closeted back at him within the hood, sounding too loud for his ears. "I don't know anything about where your men are—"

The sound of a cocking trigger silenced him and sent the worst kind of chills up his spine and prickling up his scalp. His mouth was chronically dry, but this time with fear rather than his desperate thirst. He clenched his fists, attempting to tell himself not be he frightened, but his heart rate alone told him that was a lie. The noise indicated it was close and a moment later his suspicions were confirmed, as the barrel of a gun was nudged at the back of his head. He jumped at the touch, his nerves completely scattered with his body's rapid decline, gulping as he realised this truly could be the end.

"I don't call this sunset," he said, knowing the British captor would hear him, proud of the flat, unaffected nature of his voice. "Impatient?" He attempted to stand tall, focusing on his breathing in order to try and distract himself from the quiet and the sound of firearms being loaded somewhere behind him. More than one, he suddenly realised. He was against a wall, blindfolded, surrounded be rifles.

The penny dropped just as the British voice called out for his men to ready their weapons: he was about to be murdered by firing squad.

If he hadn't been paralysed with fear, he would have wondered why they were killing him early, or fretted over what that would mean for Lane, when he was gone, but as it was, he was ashamed to say it was much like that day in the ditch when he mistook thunder for enemy fire.

Despite the fact there were multiple important people in his life, he could only picture one face: a heart-shaped one with a smile and pair of eyes that were so wide and optimistic.

He so desperately tried to remember her, each tiny detail that once came so easy to him now feeling so very far away, leaving him feeling utterly desolate. How could he keep his vow, how could she be the last thing he saw, when he couldn't even remember how the freckles on her nose fell, or the shade of green in her eyes? Things he had once had memorised.

He almost wanted to pray, though he never much believed in any god other than Lady Luck (Flook, Chance), as he was terrified more of leaving his family alone in a world filled with men like this than of death itself. Who would give Sam the warmth and softness that Rebecca so often found to hard to show, if he weren't there at the weekends? Who would guide Two Section in his place?

Who would save Molly from her grief?

Suddenly, he thought of Smurf and the way his death desolated not only Mrs. Smith's life, but also, to a lesser extent, Molly's. Who would save her from the spirals she could get herself into, if not him? She told him once only he could bring her to calm.

Struck by the memory of long, lost verse he had recited as both Smith brothers' souls, far too young to die, had been put to rest, he began whispering to himself, attempting to claim his last few moments as his own.

" _Every morning when I wake,"_ he whispered, " _D_ _ear Lord, a little prayer I make."_ Perhaps he hoped it would offer his own soul some solace and dampen the way his body shook with fear.

"Aim!" A voice ordered.

His fingers flexed against the stone wall, breathing heavily as he entire body froze. " _O please do keep Thy lovely eye... on all poor creatures, born to die."_

 _"Fire!"_

The order made Charles' weak muscles tremble so, he could feel himself collapsing. The sound of gun shots firing in the confined space triggered a cry of panic and terror from him that he was ashamed he could not keep within. It partially resembled the word 'please'.

He was rigid from head to toe, bracing for the agony he remembered gunshots to cause, his heart hammering so fast and with such velocity that he was close to hyperventilation.

However, no pain came.

He instantly fell to his knees, a strangled noise escaping his lungs as the salty taste of tears met his lips.

Blanks. The bastards had fired blanks.

As he collapsed, pleading without even first realising it was his voice, he heard them laugh. He then heard the leader who had captured him shout over at him in Arabic, a haunting, snarling declaration: "This is far our families you burned; their terror is now yours."

He did somewhat salute them. After all, they had won. He, a British Army Captain, had proven no match for them. He once thought he stood for good. He thought it was enough to simply _state_ one was good, that simply stating such a thing made it so. He had assumed, because his father had been an Army man, because he had always grown up admiring the British Army, that the orders they gave him he was given must therefore also stand for 'good', because otherwise, obviously, he would not be a part of it. He told himself through his first to fifth tour that he truly did believe in the wars he was fighting; but it took meeting Molly and discovering her outlook on life to make him see things from another perspective.

He did not serve a defining 'good', but a country filled with good people and a very fortunate, liberal society, which was run by the greedy and the cunning. He served democratic governments, yes, but these democrats were also often warlords, who waged illegal wars in far off territories for oil and power, and he had followed them, willingly blind, all in the name of 'duty' and a uniform.

He wasn't beaten by a clear-cut 'evil', but by men of out-dated views who lacked the education or the means to interpret their holy book or their circumstances for themselves. Men who had simply been desensitised by the horrors of war because it had been waged by foreigners in their back yard. It was a tale as old as war itself.

Dylan Thomas had been right; no one was wholly bad or good and perhaps, just perhaps, it had taken being at the hands of terrorist militants for Charles James to truly realise that it, through everything, would always be true.

With a deep breath, he gritted his teeth, attempting to silence himself from making any sound of weakness, and thought of Molly. His happy place.

He managed a smile, thinking of how good she was, how much he looked up to her for an example of how good she could be. Perhaps there was one exception to the rule.

Suddenly, there was the clatter of commotion in the distance. He snapped up his head, still masked, as his terror was reawakened. Blindly, he tried to pull at the hood with his tied hands, managing just to untie it and pull it over his head. It was only then that he realised that the commotion was not being made by the captors. His heart hammered as he looked up from his position on the floor, his head snapping from left to right as unknown enemy fire was flying in all directions. Foreign cries of panic were bouncing off the tin roof and stone walls so loud Charles could feel his skull pulsing with it. Crawling on his elbows, Charles felt his training kick in, only his body was far too exhausted to keep up with it. Growling against the pain that spiked through his chest, he dragged himself through the dust towards the light spilling in from the doorway. Through his blurry eyes, he could barely see, so when he heard the cry of what were unmistakably British Army, he was certain he was hallucinating.

Fighting all desperate instincts to cry for their attention, he dragged himself as hard and fast as he could, ignoring how the course concrete and stone floor tore into the skin of his elbows. Down and out of sight, that was all he had to be until he found cover. Around him, the militants were so outnumbered that they seemed to have completely forgotten about him, too busy being trigger happy with their rifles with very little strategy.

The moment he reached the doorway, Charles dove behind a set of fuel barrels, only then allowing himself to reach his gaze above the ground.

Through the gap, he caught sight of the leader that had captured him just before he was shot down, his brains splattering across the concrete. Charles wanted to look away, but he had to see who the shooter was. A moment later, he had to laugh in disbelief, as none of than Elvis stepped into view, his best man and all round bane of his life. Elvis was fighting another militant as more Special Forces moved in. Charles dare not yet allow himself to feel relief, much less hope, as he remained cowered, his cognitive function frustratingly lagging with his hunger and thirst. Suddenly, he was grabbed from behind, a strong forearm coming around his neck in a unforgiving chokehold. Instantly, he clawed at the skin and as the person managed to lift him almost off the floor. He was gasping for breath, his blood coursing with such high levels of adrenaline as he couldn't breathe. His limbs began to tingle and twitch as he was assaulted by vertigo and an uncontrollable need to sleep, his kicks backwards seeming to do very little thanks to his weakness.

He had now lost count of the amount of times he had come to the acceptance that he was going to die as his vision became blurred. He had fought so hard, but he was so tired.

Suddenly, heady breath oxygen rushed into his lungs as his face collided with the dusty floor. The burning pain in his jaw and his chest robbed him of the breath he so desperately heaved for as he lay winded, his vision dancing with spots and what looked like static noise. A gunshot in close proximity spiked his adrenaline and roused him into a flinch so violent he sprang up onto his knees. Multiple pairs of hands grabbed him by the arms and picked him up. It took him a long moment to realise, despite the chaos, that these men were Special Forces in British Army uniform. Hurriedly, they cut him free and began hurrying him out into the open. The morning sun was rising and it made Charles's eyes burn and squint, having become unaccustomed to its strength.

"Lane!" He suddenly realised he had no idea where she was. He didn't recognise his own voice it was so gravelled and soft, even as he tried to shout. "Where's Lane?!" Around him, the masked SF officers ignored him, cramming him into a helicopter and knowing he was too weak to fight them.

"Elvis!" He tried to yell, seeing his friend out the corner of his eye. "Elvis!" His heart was in his mouth, his whole body shaking against his will. Now he was safe, his only concern was Lane. As they all ignored him, forcing him down on a gurney as an unknown medic asked him typical medical assessment questions he could barely comprehend. "Fucking—No! Elvis! Where's Lane?! What—Answer me!" The more he fought as the helicopter took off, the more they held him down. Somewhere, a sharp, hot pain pinched in his arm and he knew his struggle was useless. He felt so incredibly ashamed because he had failed his soldiers. He had failed everyone. Failed.

Suddenly, he was drifting as the blue of the Kenyan sky became all he could see. Sky, proper nice, just like Afghan. Suddenly, all his pain had gone and he felt lighter than he had in weeks. His thoughts became transient, shifting, like sand through his fingers. He couldn't grasp a single thread other than one: wonderful, blissful _relief._ He could not tell the ground from the sky, or even remember his own name, but there was a voice in his ear that rendered him almost gleeful, if he had not been nearly unconscious already.

 _This is proper nice, if it weren't so bloody war and all that..._

He considered that this couldn't be heaven. No story of heaven he had ever been told included stories of angels that laughed like the unceremonious cackling he could have sworn he could hear floating over him, even over the whirring of the helicopter blades.

 _Ain't no way I'm lettin' him dip his spoon in my Coco Pops..._

No tale of angels ever told of chestnut hair that tickled his face, or toothy smiles and Cockney rhyming slang...

 _Charlie boy! Get down them apple and pears before I come back up there and we never leave that bedroom again!_

They were not wholly bad or good... but, _fuck,_ she was good; his green eyed lover, wife, friend and comrade. His angel in green.

 _I was always yours._

He was not a religious man, but he gave into feeling so wonderfully taken over, to drift into nothing but oblivion, because he decided it felt like heaven all the same.


	8. Chapter 8

_Massive thank you to London Grammar for all the music vibes. I have no idea if I ever like how this turned out because I've been going over and over it since I started formulating this story._

 _I don't know if any of you saw this year's series of The Island on Channel 4, but there was a very poignant moment when one of the older women passes out while in the middle of talking to camera and it really stuck with me while I was thinking about how people deal with stress and lack of food and water when I was writing this. She didn't 'pass out' in the over dramatic sense, but more looked off into the distance and her legs gave in. Feel free to look it up so you can get the mist of how I envisioned her passing out, because it's important to me that you don't imagine it as being massively melodramatic or anything_

 _I hope you can see that Molly's response isn't meant as a 'anti-feminist' reaction or to make her look weak, but a sign of her not looking after herself because she's fraught with worry. I felt this was most in keeping with her character, as everyone knows medics aren't good at diagnosing themselves..._

 _I really hope this lives up. Please leave me some lengthy reviews to make my day._

Inspired by my fav song right now, also. Give it a listen if you feel the need.

* * *

 **VIII**

* * *

 _"This was both of us together,_

 _every part was joining in,_

 _all like solitary feathers_

 _move with purpose through the wind._

 _When so many of us forfeit,_

 _before we simply lose the plot._

 _This was everything I wanted_

 _and I gave everything I got._

 _Well, there's not much that I can say_

 _to make you change your mind._

 _You drifted further every day_

 _until the well runs dry runs dry, runs dry..._

 _Oh, was as it over complicated_

 _making mountains out of dust?_

 _Does it leave you feeling jaded?_

 _I'd imagine that it does."_

 _—" **Wells" - Joshua Hyslop**_

* * *

When he came to again, he was in an unknown hospital room and everything hurt. He was shaking with the pain of it, as he could barely even draw in a breath without spluttering and gasping it back out with the pain it caused. His ribs felt on fire, as did his bad leg, while his head felt as though someone had shaken his brain around inside his skull. He had gasped out for water, taking each sip offered to him by the nurse aggressively.

The bliss he could barely recall, like some far off dream, was no replaced with a dull ache that had taken hold of his entire body. He was so tired, but now sleep felt far away. Reality was slowly coming back to him in painfully stark waves.

Enemy fire. Ambulance. Capture. Hiding dog tags. Beatings. Ripped clothes. Firing squads. Blue on green. Helicopters. Special Forces. Relief.

 _Lane_. Suddenly, he remembered that they had retrieved him without her. They had abstained Primary One without his man. Instantly, he tried to sit up in a urgent need to investigate, but the agony that coursed through him robbed him of breath and left him gripping the gurney for dear life.

"Woah, Charlie, mate – it's _alright_."

Elvis was at his side and he wondered where he had appeared from. His hand found Charles' clenched fingers, white-knuckled around the bars of the hospital bed, and tried to undo them.

"Lane! Where the fuck is Lane?!" he breathed out, having to close his eyes through his discomfort.

Beside him, Elvis seemed to laugh. "She's fine, Charlie, all thanks to you. Now, relax, will you? Molly will kill me if I rescued you only for you to give yourself a heart attack."

 _Molly_.

Another dose of reality hit him so hard he let out a choking gasp that was almost a laugh. The very thought of his wife made him feel lighter, but also filled with impatient anticipation to see her.

"Wouldn't be...the biggest loss," he tried to joke, though his exhaustion made finding his usual wit difficult. Elvis laughed though – Elvis always laughed – but there was also a deeper look in his eye: one that said he was overwhelmed with relief, too.

"Where am I?" Charles asked, surveying the unfamiliar room with his eyes.

"Mombasa General Hospital. You've been out all day. They want to observe you for a few more hours, but we should be good to go by tonight."

He hummed in understanding, groaning as he tried to get more comfortable and was spiked with another hot spike of pain. "Thank god."

"While Shabaab were distracted with you, Georgie managed break out of her cage and trigger one of their radios and we picked it up."

Charles wanted to laugh, immensely proud of his medic for her initiative. "Thank god for Lane."

"Yeah. She saved your arse, mate. You've got some pretty wrecked ribs and a pretty messed up face, but in all I think you got off lucky."

Charles groaned in frustration as he could barely even lift his hand to give his friend the finger for his tone, though he was smiling all the same. "Do you think you could use that big mouth of yours...to get me some more pain relief?"

He nodded and Charles watched as he went to turn his back. Suddenly, his own hand moved out to catch Elvis' arm of its own accord, pain forgotten, as he was struck with momentary panic.

As Elvis turned, he was stunned to find his friend with tears in his eyes, gripping his sleeve with surprising strength. He was instantly humbled and his pride and humour reduced to dust at the sight, as Charles was usually the most stone-faced bugger he knew. Here, all his walls had been obliterated, that much was clear, and he looked gravely afraid.

"Oh!" Elvis gassed suddenly, reaching into his trouser pocket. "I believe this is yours."

Charles eyes were blurred but he quickly recognised the glint of his wedding ring as his friend went to place it in his hand.

" _Thank you_ ," Charles managed, his throat so dry and swollen that it hurt for even the simplest words. He didn't want to cry, so bit the inside of his cheek to try and stop it. The relief he felt in that moment was so intense, knowing that he was safe, and more importantly, that Lane was safe, that he felt as though he was being hit by a tidal wave, without any defences left to hold it back.

"We found them in one of the Shabaab cabins," he informed calmly.

The sob that rose from Charles choked him, breathing wracking him with agony and he fiercely blinked to banish his tears. He hated that he was ashamed of them in that moment, because in his rational mind, he knew no amount of emotion made him any less of a soldier, or a man. In fact, being able to acknowledge emotions made him better, more capable, more empathetic.

Thankfully, Elvis knew all this already. They may have been very different in so many ways, but they were both Captains and they were both knee deep in wars, of both head and heart.

"You did good, Charlie," Elvis reassured, moving grip his forearm. "I can never thank you enough, for what you did." His tone was quiet and awkward and from this Charles could deduce that he knew about the almost-assault Lane had endured.

One look in his eyes and Charles saw the same desperate gratitude he knew he held in his. "You would have done the same for Molly."

Elvis rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, playing on the feigned hatred that Charles knew the two had for one another. "Yeah, I _suppose_ so," he joked, glad to see it rose a smile on his friend's face. "'Course I would."

"How is she?" he asked, despite how much he wanted to stop talking.

"Dehydrated, weak and very shaken, but other than that, she's well."

" _Molly_." He knew it was selfish, to change the subject, but the look of heartache in his friend's eyes jolted him. "Molly. How is she?" It took so much effort to withstand the pain.

"She's..." Elvis realised he did not know how to reply. He could have lied and told his friend she was coping, but he was not entirely sure, based on their last conversation two days before, that she was. "... _surviving_ ," he finished cryptically. "I've never _met_ a more forceful woman, mate."

Charles' natural response was to laugh, feeling so immensely proud to hear of her resolve in the face of such plight. However, he soon halted his humour as the pain made him wheeze.

As Elvis slipped off to retrieve the nurse, he watched him smile in a way that usually made him nervous, because it usually meant he had something up his sleeve.

"God, I haven't missed that face, Elvis!" he called after him, sighing heavily and wincing out a laugh.

"What face?! _You're_ the one who's the _'spoon to Molly's Coco Pops_ ', mate!"

Charles just grinned, so much was his love for his wife that he was not at all bashful about the fact that his friend had now read the inscription on the inside of his wedding ring. If anything, he felt a slight sense of sympathy for his friend before throwing away the only real love he had ever had that resembled the love Charles had been lucky enough to find.

"Better than any offer you're getting!"

–x–

By the time the sun had been going down, Molly was beyond tipsy, having drowned her sorrows in beer after beer and found she was still frightfully restless. She had decided, in her intoxicated, hazy sorrow, to take a walk down the beach, trying to ignore the men with guns monitoring the entire stretch of sand and staring at her footprints.

She used to hate sand, the way in squelched between her toes and managed to get absolutely everywhere, but Charles had managed to change all that. He taught her to see the beauty in so much of what she once dismissed about the world.

" _Don't you think it's fascinating though_?!" he would say, picking up sand and letting it slip through his fingers before them. She had been sat beside him, huddling to him for warmth as they watched the setting of the sun over South England's horizon and he curled a blanket around them both. "That all these tiny grains of sand used to be rocks?! They've been ground together over so long by the tide, traveled so far, that they've ended up basically microscopic?!"

Molly had laughed, teased him about how he always managed to think deeply about everything, even when it was simple. Now though, she understood what it was he meant. Each tiny grain had once been rocks and stones or shells and had traveled across the world hundreds of times over, enduring tides and storms and god knows what, and yet, here they were, hundreds of millions of them, now under her feet.

In the heat of Mombasa, it was hard to remember that chilly August sunset in England when she had clung to Charles for warmth, wanting to sit and watch the colours of the Cornish sky over the sea for as long as she could while he tried to piss her off by serenading her with a cringe-worthy and endless rendition of _'Good Golly Miss Molly_ '. She had known he was staring at her as she stared at the sky; he had a habit of staring at her when he thought she couldn't see. It made her feel all warm and squirmy, as she so inadequately described it once, with a intense sentimentality she had never expected to ever feel about anyone.

In the early days of their relationship, she had cracked jokes and teased him to break the tension when he did so – _"Did you just wipe cabbage on my hand?"_ – unable to stand it because, deep down, she didn't feel deserving of such looks of devotion. He would go along with it and she was thrilled that she made him laugh – " _I didn't want to soil the napkin..._ " – but his eyes would still be looking at her with a unspoken intensity that made her breathless and hot all over.

By the time they were engaged, Molly had finally begun to feel secure, instead silently pretending not to see him gazing at her and just enjoyed the breathless, giggling school girl high it triggered in her, just as it had since their early days.

"I miss you," she whispered into the warm Kenyan wind, feeling tears arriving all over again now she was alone. "I mean, who's going to sing to me as the sun goes down?" She could see the armed guards signalling to her to go back toward the hotel, as pirates operated in these waters so the beach was off limits at night. Looking over her shoulder at the distance she had travelled, her heart began to race. Looking back at the sky, she felt herself shaking as the sun began its final decent into the horizon.

"You said you'd come back." The sun was disappearing. Time was up. She had heard nothing of Charles, much less a rescue. They say no news is good news, but that was certainly not how it felt. "You promised."

Suddenly, she felt irrationally angry, scowling at the sky and shouting into nothing. "You made me promise, every bleedin' time, yet now you're the one going off getting bloody _killed_!" Deep in her mind, she knew she should have felt self conscious that she was talking to no one, not even herself, but somehow it felt like she could only now voice these words where they could be swallowed by the sea. "You can't be gone," she squeaked, her voice fractured with barely repressed emotion. "I pretend to be strong but I ain't this strong! That's the truth! I could do all this life without you but it will kill me! I told you going into this that I couldn't lose you! I can't _do_ this! I can't do it!"

The constant, quiet rhythm of the waves was her only reply, the silence only making her tears come faster.

"Please..." She knew she was begging to empty space, but she had lost all care for anything else. Suddenly, she was on her knees, the warm waves soaking her board shorts and pulling at her folded legs each time they drew back out to sea. Looking up at the stark, scarlet sky, she could barely breath. Her hands came to brace herself in front of her, digging into the sand in the shallow surf. Almost hypnotised, she watched the sand mould their shape, imprinting her presence momentarily into the landscape like dough, before quickly being dragged away again, gently tickling and scratching her palms as it went. "Please. I won't ever complain about you singing 'Good Golly Miss bleedin' Molly' at me, ever again," she whispered, feeling even weaker than her voice sounded. Her stomach churned, painfully and audibly empty, but still, she didn't move. "I'll do anything... _Please_ , just, come back," she sobbed, her whole frame shaking. "Come back."

She wasn't sure who she thought might be listening, since her time at war had made her bitter to any suggestion that any kind of God could possibly exist, but still, she could not move. She had no belief except that of the power of good people and small acts of kindness, but she was completely out of options because neither could help her now.

She was not sure how long she knelt there, careless that her clothes were soaked or even that her intimate anatomy burned with the contact of sea water, quietly whispering pleas with the universe. She was lost, but she had to try. For Charles, she had to try.

She didn't notice a figure behind her until their hand was on her back, though this barely roused her from her trace-like state. She was staring at the moment of the sand between her fingers, back and forth, until unknown hands tried to shake her.

"Molly, you need to come inside."

She heard them, but still did not move, couldn't move.

"He's gone," she said, almost to herself, as the only explanation she had left for why she couldn't pick herself up. "He loved the sea so much, did you know?"

The sun had now sunk beyond the horizon, leaving only the dusty pink hue of dusk in its place. Despair made way for another kind of grief as she watched it go, a kind of terrifying numbness that left her uncaring if she drowned in the shallows.

Charles was gone, so she was already gone, too. Her heart may have been beating, but she did not feel alive. She would never feel again.

"Come on, Dawesy. Come on."

Someone lifted her up, unfamiliar hands, dark and strong. She did nothing to assist them, her joints locked and stiff with the time she had spent on her knees. She gazed at the figure, only slowly recognising them as Kinders. She felt slow and heavy as he moved with urgency, shaking her. She could barely comprehend a word he said, even though she heard him perfectly. She looked at him, a dear, dear friend, but all she could think about was shadows and the dark reality of death.

"Come on, Molls," he said, taking her weight into his side and helping her walk. "It's not safe out here."

They were just approaching the hotel she made out a dark figure making their way towards them, their stride sure and strong. As Kinders helped her up the steps and through the gate into the hotel pool area, she could see the face clearly, lit up in grim and stark white and blue by the pool fluorescents.

"Elvis," she heard herself say, barely recognising her own voice. She was intrigued by the look on his face, as he looked incredibly surprised and concerned when he looked at her. She always thought he did not care for her, since she did not particularly care for him, outside of his being Charles' best mate. Yet, in that moment, she was sure she could read deep worry and concern in his eyes. Instantly, her heart was in her mouth again.

She knew that look.

Charles was gone.

"Molly—" he said, speaking to her almost as though she were a wild animal.

"—What happened?!"

"Did no one—?"

"—Where are the others?" Looking around, she saw no one but the odd member of hotel staff. It all felt so quiet. "What's _happening_?!" she demanded, barely aware of how her voice had risen, her breathing becoming hyperventilation.

"What? They're watching football in the bar," Elvis answered hurriedly, his tone sounding impatient and confused. "Listen to me, Molly, I need to—"

He was looking at her in pity, which only ever made her worry. She looked around her frantically, seeing no one behind him. No Charles, No Georgie. Though she was now standing and walking again, she could feel her head feeling heavy, spinning. She barely continued to hold herself up, holding onto the spiral staircase bannister in the centre of the foyer with both hands.

"Oh, god, he's _dead_ , isn't he?" she breathed. Her vision was spotting. "I think I'm going to be sick—"

"— _What_?! No, Molly!"

Instantly, she tried to launch at him, but she was unsteady on her feet, her body running on empty; rage her only fuel left began to weep as she cried: "You said you'd save him! You _said_!"

She suddenly noticed he went from looking cautious to utterly aghast, as though completely confused by her rage. "— _Molly_!" He shouted at her, grabbing both her arms with his face now inches from hers to silence her. Heaving, she clenched her fists to hold in her rage, barely able to keep on her feet with the innate urge she felt to flinch from his touch.

Suddenly, he was smiling, laughing as though with disbelief as he held her even tighter by her upper arms, then cupping her face, to keep her looking at him. His eyes shined with a delight she could not remember ever seeing in him.

"Molly – he's not _dead_."

For a long moment, she didn't compute his words. Her heart felt like it might burst from her chest and she dare not let herself believe it.

"What?" Her voice was suddenly tiny and broken, almost a sob. Without rage, she had nothing left. She was so tired.

"Didn't anyone tell you all? We went in this morning. They're _safe_ , Molly."

The next moment seemed to happen very slowly, as she struggled to breathe with the force of her relief. The front doors of the hotel opposite her moved, Georgie's lean, graceful figure, slow and weary, came into view, carrying two bergen. As her eyes locked onto Molly's, she stopped in her tracks, round eyes instantly glassy as she smiled a tight, bittersweet smile.

"Hiya, Molls."

Molly was frozen, her limbs feeling made of lead.

As another figure entered, also in uniform, Molly could feel her lungs seize altogether. He was slow, rigid, in pain, even using a crutch... but she would still know him from a distance of a thousand miles.

She watched him notice her, realising he must almost as surprised to see her and she was to see him. She recognised the look of shock on his face, the way his eyes became larger and glassy, his brow smooth as he lower lip seemed to quiver.

Seeing him alive, she felt her body close down with relief. She had been running on empty, she now realised, only fuelled by the need to see him live.

Now she had, she didn't seem to have any control, as her vision blurred and her head felt fuzzy. He was safe. Charles was safe. She could sleep now.

She tried to say his name, but she didn't hear her own voice as things started to drift. After the exhausting agony of her despair, she could do nothing but give in. She was no match for the bliss of relief.

–x–

Charles had been thinking of nothing but the hotel bed he had waiting for him as he hobbled into the entrance of The Royale Mombasa. He had been so distracted with his exhaustion, a day in a hospital bed not nearly enough rest after days of sleep deprivation, that he almost walked into Lane as she had halted in front of him.

He had looked up to see what had stopped her in her tracks, exhaling through the pain of moving as he leant on his hospital crutch, only to stop breathing all together. He was half convinced he was hallucinating. _Surely_ he was! How else could his wife, who should have been on tour in Afghanistan, be in front of him in Kenya?

She looked grief-stricken, ghostly and frail in his old university shirt. He had walked into a scene in which Elvis was gripping her by the face, trying to calm her.

The moment their eyes locked, Charles realised that she was shocked to see him. Her face was red and blotchy with both fresh and stagnant tears, her eyes wide and nearly frantic in their shock, but other than that, she was still. She was shocked to see him.

" _Charlie_ …"

She said his name, but her voice was so weak it only just reached his ears. In horror, he watched as the recognition disappeared from her eyes, as they seemed to look right through him. Her eyes didn't even roll back into her head, but he knew before she even began to fall that something was wrong.

"Molly—?!" he exclaimed. He lunged to cover the distance between them upon reflex, but growled in fury with himself as the hospital meds and pain slowed him down, her legs seemed to collapse under her. Suddenly, his Captain voice was back – he was half sure he had lost it in his exhaustion – as he panicked, barking out an order. "—Someone catch her!"

Elvis, still in front of her, caught her in his arms before as she sank backward, her head narrowly missing colliding with the stone floor.

"Molly!" Lane exclaimed, on her knees beside her friend in seconds.

Charles was there almost just as fast, ignoring the pain that burned through him as he threw himself to the ground, hands desperate to touch her hands and her face.

"Boss! You're _hurt_ —!" she said, trying to warn him to back away and slow down. He could do nothing but ignore her, the sight of his wife lying on the cold floor of a hotel foyer allowed for no worries about himself.

"Molly!" he cried, ignoring all his friends attempts to hold him back. "No, no, _no_ ," he found himself whispering as he lifted her up, feeling nothing in way of his own physical pain, and cradled her in his arms. Her eyes were closed, rolled into the back of her head, almost as though all life had left her. "What's happening?!" he demanded helplessly, hating that his voice cracked.

"Molls! Can you hear me?" Lane called, gently tapping her cheek to try to wake her and lifting her eyelids to check her pupils. "Elvis – can you get her legs, please? Hold them up, above her heart – yeah, like that." It didn't skip anyone's notice that she did not look his friend, her voice tense and cold. Hardly a surprise, given he had jilted her at the alter.

The sight of Molly so lifeless left him wheezing with terror as it felt like a nightmare he had had so many times had come to life. His own life could be in danger until the cows came home, but the moment Molly's hung in the balance, he was filled with a completely different kind of fear and rage. When his own life was threatened, he was floating on a tide of numbness, guilt and loss… but now, he felt it _all_. He gagged with the panic it caused. Sitting back helpless while Molly was hurt made him feel like he was drowning, making it increasingly difficult for him not to hyperventilate, much less think straight.

"Has she drank enough water today?" Lane asked, directing her question to Kinders.

"I'm not sure. I noticed she didn't eat at all—"

"—Oh, Molls," Charles sighed tearfully as his heart clenched, knowing his wife and therefore knowing she would only be so irrational if she lost herself in grief. This was, indirectly or not, his fault. He tenderly stroked her face, guilt stabbing him at the sight of her swollen red eyes and upper cheeks. He tuned out everything around him and focused only on her beautiful, heart-shaped face, pleading under his breath over and over.

Her eyes began to twitch, signally she was coming around, and his heart was in his mouth.

"Molly," Lane called, leaning over her face. " _Molly_ , can you hear me?"

Slowly, Charles watched his favourite green eyes come into view again, his heart slamming with relief. He caressed a hand over her face, noting how smooth her skin felt in his callous hands, leaning into her view. She stared upward at them blankly, as though at first not comprehending what she saw, but as her eyes darted frantically, it became clear she was coming around, shell shocked and confused.

"You alright, Molls? You passed out on us a bit, there."

Her eyes darted between Lane as she spoke and Charles' face, breathing speeding up into ragged wheezing and she instantly tried to sit up hurriedly, as though panicked. A sob escaped her throat, an anguished sound of disorientation that rose a lump in Charles' throat.

"It's alright! It's alright, Molly," he assured softly, attempting to hold her down to steady her along with Georgie. "You're alright."

"Have to say it's the first time someone has passed out at the sight of you, Charlie-boy," Elvis joked from his side.

Charles gave him a halfhearted glare, too busy worrying for Molly to find his humour. Below him, Molly was heaving, warm tears spilling down her temples and onto his hands. Her eyes finally fixed on him and Charles felt his heart tremor and leap. Now, he knew she could see him. She was back.

"Charlie," she sobbed, her voice was weak and shaking, high pitched in shock.

"Hi, sweetheart," he greeted, feeling his own smile wobble. He should have felt bashful as the pet name escaped in front of those in his charge, but he had no room in his mind for any thoughts other than Molly.

Instantly, Molly ignored Lane's attempts to keep her down as she reached up enough to pull his face to hers, just as he moved to press his forehead to hers. Her breath quivered against his face as she held onto him for dear life and he did the same. He trailed her hairline with his lips, inhaling the scent of her hair right into his lungs.

"I thought—!"

"—I know," he whispered, momentarily hiding her face against her hair, which he realised was wet and smelt of the sea. "I'm here."

Pain wracked through him in this position, his joints grinding in protest to kneeling on the floor, so he reluctantly pulled back.

"You've got the best rooms they've got, Bossman, with a sea view," Kinders informed, softly. "It is on the fourth floor, but thankfully there's a lift."

" _Fantastic_ ," he sighed happily, inhaling hard to try and pull back his emotion. "Kinders," he groaned as he tried to stand, leaning on his crutch. "Can you help Molly upstairs?"

"I can walk, Bossman!" she protested with her trademark snark, though her voice was weaker than he had ever heard it. He laughed a little, but stopped when it hurt, filled with brim with a heady combination of exhaustion and giddiness. He gave Kinders a look as Molly went to stand, one he gave many a time as his CO, that told him to do as he said anyway. She rolled her eyes and roughly wiped beneath them to try and get rid of her tears, but didn't protest any further. As Charles moved slowly towards the lift, grimacing silently as he went, he did expect her to follow. What he didn't expect was for Molly to lunge forward to pull him back, grabbing his hand and his arm with a desperate strength. Usually, neither would initiate physical contact in front of their Sections, but such concerns for regulation seemed entirely insignificant now.

"I'm fine!" she sighed frustratedly as Kinders accompanied them into the lift closely at her other side. "Just because I'm a woman, _don't_ make me made of glass! I just forgot to eat lunch, that's all."

He just smiled as she stropped, smoothing his thumb over and over her knuckles, thrilled simply by the weight of her hand in his, having thought not long ago he would never see her again.

As they reached the room Kinders indicated was reserved for Charles, it was just down the corridor from the one reserved for Lane.

 _"Eat something_ – even if it's a bloody banana – and drink some water!" Lane ordered good-naturedly as she disappeared. Charles was ahead, but he could practically hear the intensity with which Molly rolled her eyes.

Suddenly, Molly was not behind him, as her hand slipped from his. He turned to find her cautious face looking at him as though she had the world still on her shoulders, which left a thousand questions poised on his tongue. He didn't like that look.

"I forgot something. I'll be back in a second."

He let her go, making a mental note to get her to open up to him when the time was right.

The room he walked into was vast compared to that of a usual room, with a kingsize bed and an adjoining master bathroom, which featured a large, Jacuzzi style bath.

"Dinner is now until 11:00 hours, sir," Kinders informed as he halted at the door. Charles bee-lined for the bed, desperate to sink onto the mattress. "Breakfast is from 07:00 until 10:00 hours."

"Thank you, Kinders," he sighed, desperate to collapse backward into the mattress, but wanting to finally be alone to do so. His friend and colleague looked at him for a long moment with eyes that told of a heavy burden, finally lifted. He almost said 'Ditto' aloud, but that was he and Molly's word, so he left the silence to speak for him.

As Molly knocked on Georgie's door, she was shaking with anxiety. She had intended to follow on into Charles' room, to finally hold him and kiss him once they were alone, but suddenly the thought of doing so before he knew what had happened to her felt like a betrayal. She had spent the entire lift ride silently deliberating how the hell she was going to say it, when she realised she wasn't sure she could. The closer she got to their first private moment in weeks, the further away from certainty she felt. When Lane had called to her, walking away, she was suddenly struck with the need to ask her friend for advice. Georgie had always been so pragmatic and easy to talk to on tour. Georgie would know what she should say.

However, as she stood there, knuckles already having hit the wood of the door, she felt suffocated by the anxiety simply visualising saying those words caused, even if it was only to Georgie that she said them.

"Molly," Georgie greeted, evidently surprised to see her friend at her door only seconds after assuming she would turn in for the night.

Instantly, Molly had pulled her into a hug, which her friend returned with reverent squeezes and tearful sniffs.

"Hey you," she whispered in reply against her friends camo-clad shoulder, before reluctantly pulling away. Georgie's eyes were shining with emotion when she met them with hers, much the same as Molly knew her own were.

"Would it be really stupid to ask how you are?" Molly asked clumsily, attempting to grin at her own weak humour. Thankfully, Georgie laughed, letting her into the room as the threw her Bergen down on the bed.

"I've been better, for sure, but thanks to the Boss, I'm doing alright."

That struck Molly dumb for a long moment, as she could guess exactly the kind of heroics her husband always managed to get himself into.

"Yeah. I'm proper gonna' have a go at 'em about that. Always has to be the bleedin' hero…"

Carefully, she leant against the chair, her attempts at light hearted conversation feeling fragile and stale as she watched her friend unpack the belongings the Section had had sent over to the hospital for her. She looked very tired, but even with exhaustion, desert grime and the lingering shadows of torture, Georgie Lane still looked more like a model than Molly could express.

"How is he?" she asked gently, almost afraid to ask. She knew that if she asked her husband that question, the answer would be disguised with bravado and a need to be someone to look up to. After all, he was, bottom and brass, a Commanding Officer. So, instead, she asked her friend, whose medical and personal opinion she held in the highest esteem… despite the fact she was, truth be told, somewhat afraid to hear the answer.

Georgie paused long enough to look up at her, eyes suddenly pinched with a haunted look of regret but also sparked with admiration. "He could be better. They fucked up his ribs with the beatings; he's lucky they didn't manage to break anything else." Molly visible flinched, unable to help but visualise it. "He'll be on some pretty heavy duty pain meds for a while…"

She trailed off as though she was suddenly far away, the look on her eyes looking out into the darkness through the glass balcony door. After a long moment, she blinked hard, seemingly coming back out of whatever reverie it was that had overtaken her.

"What?"

Georgie cleared her throat, placing the pair of trousers in her hands down, giving up trying to fold them. "He saved me is all, from a fate some would say was worse than death."

Molly couldn't breathe.

"I knew he was a great man from what you had told me and from what I had heard, but…" Georgie's expressive long eyelashes fluttered, as though attempting to kerb fresh tears. "Now I see. I see what real, everlasting love and dedication is."

Now it was Molly's turn to blank, as these were not the words she had expected. "What?" she questioned with a bemused smile.

Georgie just shook her head, smiling at Molly with a look of enlightenment… but also one of great personal torment. " _You_ were all he wanted," she said. "He thought he was going to die. He was _starving_ and delirious and yet all he had to say was how he didn't tell you he loved you enough. The man's got it chronic!"

Guilt reared its ugly head as Molly heard these words, as she felt chronically inadequate. All she could think of was how she had kept such a great secret from him in the days before he was taken; how she had mislead him out of cowardice and it could have been the last thing she had said to him. Meanwhile, he had been as devote to her as he ever had been. She was sure now of what had she had always known: she did not deserve his heart and honour of gold.

"I don't deserve 'im," she managed, having to look down. "I'm sorry you both had to go through all this shit." She would have wept for them if she hadn't been so tired. "Fucking _fuck_ war, eh?"

"You do, Molls," Georgie insisted with her trademark certainty, moving to carry on unpacking. "The fact you think you don't is exactly why you do."

This conversation had become something Molly had not at all intended: it felt far too conversational and casual for the revelation that was eating its way out of her. At her feet, something dropped from the pile of clothes Georgie was moving across into the wardrobe: what looked to be a leaflet of some kind.

"Oh, yo—" Upon instinct, she went to retrieve it for her friend in order to give it back, but her words were silenced the moment she saw what it was, her heart rate accelerating so fast it made her stomach lurch.

 _'Rape and Sexual Assault Aftercare. What's next?'_

The leaflet was folded and had most definitely fallen from Georgie's bergen. It looked new, as though she had been given it at the hospital where she had just been…

Her breathing restricted, Molly instantly held it in her closed hand, her mind reeling as to what to do or say. Be it a blessing or not, Georgie took this choice out of her hands, answering her unvoiced question.

"They didn't manage to." Her voice was low and gravely always, but as she said this, it was more so, as she was evidently attempting to repress emotion. "The hospital gave me that anyway, in case... I don't know. It was pretty shit-scary anyway." Molly felt her face warm with the discomfort of the topic, itching to move but finding she couldn't. "The Boss gave himself up… to stop them, distract them."

Clenching her eyes shut, Molly gripped the chair behind her for dear life. "And that _worked_?"

"For a while. Enough time to get us out." When she opened her eyes, she saw the gaze of a woman who had seen the true horrors of men, who now knew a side to them she could never un-see. It was the gaze she knew she now held too; a cold, pessimistic view of the world. " _Shit_ , I don't know how things would have been, if he hadn't been there…"

As her friend went about unpacking, she didn't seem to notice how Molly was fraught with indecision, as the words she had been swallowing and crushing down began rising up in her throat like bile, undeniable and demanding to be released. Cutting through the companionable silence, they felt as heavy as lead, voicing them instantly left her feeling lighter than she ever remembered feeling in her life.

"I do."

Halting in her tracks, Georgie's brow furrowed, not following. "What, Molls?"

Barely managing to take in a breath, she couldn't look up. Instead, she stared down at the leaflet as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world. "I _know_ ," she murmured, hoping that the emphasis would be enough, that she wouldn't have to say it.

Slowly, Georgie dropped what she was doing and approached her. She became close enough that Molly could smell the scent of the hospital anti-bacterial on her. "Molly," she said, her voice now bold with an edge of fear and warning. "I don't understand. What are you _saying_?"

Looking up, she held up the leaflet, shrugging her shoulders as the tears came. It almost felt like a surrender. "I _know_ what happens… when men like Charles… don't make it in time."

Georgie suddenly had her by the shoulders, her voice breaking. " _Who_ , Molly? When did this happen?"

Feeling weak, Molly had to close her eyes again. "Before all this," she said. "I was going to report him earlier, but then you and Charles—"

"— _Who_ , Molly?!" Georgie's tone was firm, reminding Molly of Charles when he was giving advise to a member of his Section: assertive, yet persuasive.

"My CO," she whispered, as though any louder and the words might swallow her up.

"Holy shit," Georgie breathed, shocked, before her tone became tearful, sorrowful, mournful. "Oh, Molly, I'm so sorry – _Fuck_."

" _Yeah_." Now the words were out, she was exhausted. "That's why I'm here. They've suspended him and put me on compassionate leave."

There was a long period of quiet as they simply held each other, comforts one another in the face of such horrific ghosts that they now carried.

 _"How do I tell him_?" Molly whispered, the exhausting effects of adrenaline leaving her wondering how it was she was still standing.

Georgie sighed and squeezed her harder, as though trying to keep her together against the threat of her own doubts. "It doesn't matter," she replied. "He will only ever blame one person, and it won't ever be you."


	9. Chapter 9

**VIIII**

* * *

"Good to have you back, sir."

Charles smiled a little as Kinders left, though deep down he still felt nothing but guilt for causing such distress in those closest to him.

"You won't be saying that once he's back at Brize, making yo'all run laps round the place," Molly replied softly, appearing at the door, leaning almost shyly against the wall opposite him.

As the door clicked shut signally they were finally alone, Charles watched quietly as his wife stood still as a statue, looking incredibly apprehensive and breathless as her chest rose and fell with the same increasing speed his did. It was only now that he got a good look at her, noticing for the first time that her clothes, his old university shirt and shorts, were soaked with water, along with strands of her hair.

"You're shaking," he said, trying to lift his arm to beckon her to him, but lifting his arms was agony. As he gasped aloud, she hurriedly filled the the gap between them, looking as though she had never seen an injured man before.

"You're hurt," she countered softly, feeling too on edge to even reach out and touch him. It felt like she was balanced on a razors edge, the quiet around them almost suffocating in its intensity, as though neither knew how to break it.

"Just a few broken ribs," he shrugged, knowing he sounded foolish in how he downplayed it. He gazed at her, seeing her nerves but not understanding why they were there.

"You're face is not as pretty as I remember it either, mate," she replied, attempting at a joke. His tongue subconsciously darted out to touch his split lip, knowing by the ache in his face that he had a shiner on his cheekbone or two, no doubt already swollen.

"Yours is," he said. Usually, he would give her a charming smile that would tell her he knew he was being cheesy, but today his expression was somber. He meant it completely. After all, absence made the heart grow fonder… and so did hear death. "You're so beautiful," he breathed, almost talking to himself.

"I think whatever them bastards did to ya's gone to y'brain, Charlie!" she retorted bashfully, busy wiping the continued silent tears that fell from her eyes unchecked.

"Maybe," he conceded, his voice rough with pent up emotion. "But not when it comes to you."

He was so impatient to hold her again, he almost pleaded with her to come closer, but finally she closed the last foot or so between them on her own, standing between his parted legs at the edge of the bed.

Slowly, she slid her fingers into his hair from the curls at his forehead. His eyes almost rolled with the bliss he felt as her fingernails began to slowly massage and scratch at his scalp just how he liked it. He pressed his forehead against her waist, just under her breast, for a moment, ignoring the damp, salty nature of her clothes and simply basked in her shape and warmth. He wasn't dead and, by some miracle, his wife was here to greet him on R&R. He felt utterly blessed. He wanted to thank God, but after the events of the last few days, he still had no idea how such a being could exist when such injustice and wrong carried on.

She was now bending down to him enough to grip him around his neck and shoulders, pressing her lips to his hair. He hadn't realised he was crying until she began shushing him softly, attempting to console him against the shell of his ear.

"I love you," he wheezed, the words feeling urgent. "I love you more than I can comprehend. You know that, don't you?"

"I think you're mad, but I know," she whispered, kissing him again while she stroked him hair, still thick with desert grime. "because I love _you,"_ she replied, knowing he needed to hear it back today. "You broke Army regulations for me, so I know you must like me, at least a little."

"Yeah, just a little, I guess," he joked, kissing her collarbone through her shirt.

'Just, Gordon Bennett! No more fucking heroics. I almost died of ten Julius seizures!"

His breath trembled against her neck as struggled not to laugh and weep simultaneously, his hands gripping the sheets at his sides as he couldn't lift his arms. The pain was too exhausting to withstand.

Pulling back, they looked at one another and simpered a little at the sight of each other, both a mess of tear stains, salt and dust. Charles then gasped, his body continually forgetting that it hurt to laugh.

"I can't," he protested weakly, though he was still grinning. "Please don't make me…laugh."

Standing to her full height, he was endeared all over again that she was still so small. Sat up on the bed, his eye level was easily in line with her breasts, currently peaking with the chill of the air conditioning beneath a wet shirt.

"I'll try not to, but you know me," she said, pretending she wasn't shaking with cold. "But I can't promise anything, what with my effortless charm and magnetism."

He chuckled just as he had the very first time she had said such a thing, but this time, he weakly reached to grab ahold of her and pull her to him, as he had so craved to do all that time ago.

However, as he moved to gently pull her in by the outer thigh, he was bewildered to find her flinch away from his touch, as though his touch was so hot or cold it had taken her by surprise.

"Woah—what—did I—are you hurt?" he began, not sure where his words were. He suddenly couldn't stop seeing how Lane had flinched that same way after having her clothing torn and her body groped just days ago.

Just like that, she was gone from his touch, out of his reach.

"I'll run you a bath," she said softly, pressing a long, reverent kiss in his forehead as he so often did to her. He might have thought she had not heard him, if it had not been for the way she would no longer meet his eye.

"Molly?"

Again she ignored him, disappearing behind the tiled panel hiding the adjoining bathroom. "The lads will lose it when they see you," she called through nonchalantly. "I'd be careful that Mansfield don't cry all over you."

"Molly," he repeated, knowing he sounded impatient and offended, but really he was terrified. Molly didn't keep things from him. They had always been open and honest with one another. She began nattering about free bath oils and how her mum would have already pinched everything complimentary she possibly could if she were here, but the more she spoke, evidently trying to bury whatever it was that bothered her under ten inches of needless chat, the more he was desperate to force the truth from her.

She walked back through and gave him a look of deep thought.

"Do you think you can you make it to the bath?" she said, holding out her arms to assist him. "I know you're a rather heavy bugger, but I can try and help."

Groaning, he allowed her to help him up, using his upper arms to take some of his weight. Slowly, they made it to the bathroom, where she went about the task of undressing him with a level of detached pragmatism he previously thought could only be reserved for experienced parents attempting to undress their errant four year old olds. However, at the sight of the colourful, angry looking bruising already rising on his skin the entire length of his chest, she faltered and he could make out the unmistakably ghost of terror in her eyes.

"Oh, Charlie!" she gasped in a whisper, reaching down to ghost her fingertips over the furious looking redness, some of which already becoming a deep burgundy in its transition to black and blue.

"I'm okay," he assured gently, sitting helplessly on the edge of the tub. He watched her face as a multitude of different emotions crossed her features, from sorrow and compassionate despair to something much darker.

"You sure? It looks bad," she said, as though she hadn't heard him. Ignoring the pain it caused, he reached out to grasp her hand and bring it to him lips, trying not to groan through his teeth.

"Don't worry about me, sweetheart."

Instantly, she looked at him with a familiar look of fire. He narrowly managed not to laugh. "Don't you _sweetheart_ me, Charles bloody James! 'Don't worry'?!" With a sniff that told him she biting back her true response, she then knelt before him to help get rid of his trousers. "I swear! I have never wanted to both smother _and_ throttle someone so much in me life!"

Her voice may have sounded angry, but what he heard was how it shook. He knew by the distracted look in her eyes that the fury was in fact of disguise for her fear for him. He felt guilty and self conscious as he allowed her to undress him this way, feeling completely and utterly useless. He hated feeling like such a burden and knowing he had caused her such distress. At the same time though, he felt his heart leap with joy with each touch; her fingertips on his bare skin sent jolting electricity through his veins.

With a stoic expression, she helped him stand so he could hold onto her shoulders while she pulled down his camo trousers and boxer briefs. She noticed they were clean and realised they must have been delivered to him fresh in hospital. She dreaded to think about the state of the clothing he had been wearing up until that point.

She barely looked at him once he was nude, as though she had never seen him naked before. As she helped him into the water, grimacing each time he groaned through gritted teeth as he moved to sit down. The warmth of the water left him breathing heavily, momentarily forgetting his worries entirely, as the water felt splendid against his battered muscles, so splendid it was almost painful.

–x–

Molly felt her whole body shaking with anxiety as she gazed at her husband's wounds, feeling ill as she looked at what had been done to him. She could feel a sudden wave of tears almost breaking banks as she stuffed her hands into her pockets. Her fingertips met the damp leaflet there, which felt as though it was burning a hole damp in her pocket. She so wanted to collapse with the exhaustion of keeping it all in. She so wanted to feel lighter, to feel delighted and blissful now her husband was safe, but instead, she felt as burdened than ever.

Looking up, he was gazing at her with half-closed eyes; the look of a contented man. He was beautiful, even after being beaten for days and starved, he was still beautiful. His usually defined torso seemed narrower, his whole frame a little thinner. His brown eyes were shadowed with dark rings of exhaustion, but the were looking at her in a way that would have once set her blood on fire. A nude Charles in a bath had once been her most favourite treat. Now though, it just left her feeling sick because he didn't _know_. He wouldn't look at her like that…not once he knew.

"Join me?" he whispered softly, unaware of how the prospect of undressing in front of him made panic grip her every muscle.

Molly was therefore left speechless, as she was struck dumb for how she should respond. If she denied him this, something she would usually happily accept, he would know something was wrong. But if she didn't… he would see her bruises.

"Molly?"

Suddenly feeling suffocated, she turned on her heel and wrenched open the veranda door. Instantly, she was hit with the heat and humidity of the Kenyan evening air, a stark contrast with the air conditioned room, as she stood and gasped for air over the balcony. Behind her, she could already feel Charles' eyes, tense with worry, following her every move.

"Molly, what's wrong?"

When she didn't answer, she heard him groan and growl loudly, evidently trying lift himself back out of the bath.

"No! Don't!" She attempted to hurry back to stop him while not looking him in the eye. "Y'mad?! You might gonna' hurt y'self more!"

When she tried to stop him, he gave her a glare reserved for Captain James only. "I _might gonna' have to_ if it means finding out what you're not telling me."

She held his gaze, determined not to break it, but of course, she ended up looking away first.

She just couldn't make the words come. She knew she couldn't sustain this, this feeling of shame and betrayal and disgust for herself, but she couldn't find a way to let the words out. They made her so sick to even think them.

"I can't."

He was silent for a long moment, frustratingly slamming a palm down on the surface of the water. "What do you mean you 'can't'?!"

She flinched at his tone as the harsh words bounced off the tiles. She couldn't breathe, knowing how she was hurting him. But she also couldn't breathe at the thought of losing him to the truth, either.

"Don't shout at me!" she ordered hotly, her tone fragile compared to him. She had turned away from him, gazing out the window.

"You're right – I'm sorry. I'm sorry." His voice was back to its quiet, calm nature again. "I just… can't cope with watching you hurting when you won't let me help. Please let me—"

"—You weren't here!" she shot back impulsively, her throat tight with tears. "What could _you_ know?!" Her rage and exhaustion, which had been focused inward for so long, now focused on the one person who she deep down knew was her greatest protector. She was ashamed as she heard the barb and sharpness with which she spoke to him, but she seemed unable to stop it. Her disgust for herself and the world was making her sour, turning her into a woman who could only withstand men at arms width, who blamed all men for what one animal did to her… and she felt powerless to stop it.

"Molly—"

At the doorway to the balcony, she gripped the doorframe, looking at him but only seeing a mist of red. "—Don't ask me if I'm fucking okay!" Hands shaking, she felt the words escaping as though not at all her own. "How can I ever be okay again?"

Frowning, Charles seemed to sense they were talking of two separate things: one of which she knew all and he knew nothing. "Molly, I'll be alright. It's just some broken ribs—"

"It's not—!" she shouted, having to break her words to heave a deep breath. Her lungs felted seized and malfunctioning. "It's not about—"

"—Then what _is it?!"_

 _"I told you – I can't say!"_ she shouted, unable to stop the volume of her voice from increasing as she felt herself retreating into self defense.

 _"Why?!"_

"'Cuz I can't lose you a second time, alright?!" she cried. The silence that followed was almost deafening, as they both attempted to disguise her distress. Charles' own eyes were now shining with a deafening anguish, his fingers gripping the rim of the tub as he could barely even move, much less climb out to her. "If I say it out loud, it makes it real and I'm terrified of what that means."

"What?" Lost, Charles had managed to shuffle himself along the bench within the bath, as near to her as he could get as he leant over the edge, holding out his arms. "Makes _what_ real? Molly? I don't understand."

With bated breath, Molly fingered the leaflet, pulling it from her pocket. Thumbing the word that lay on her mind with the weight of the world, her vision blurred with tears until she couldn't see. Slowly, she made her way to him and, feeling in a sort of trance, placed it in his hand.

She couldn't look at him, instead choosing to back away as though it would mean backing away from the truth she had set free.

–x–

So much was his exhaustion, it took him a long moment to process the words on the paper she handed him, already wrinkled with the moisture of her shorts pocket. All the same, a word he had most come to dread over the last few days was there, printed before him in black and white. His mind could barely compute it. Was did Molly have a leaflet on rape?

One look up at her and the answer suddenly seemed all too clear. Her entire frame was stiff, rigid, unlike the Molly he knew, as though expecting something might pounce at her at any moment. Her eyes were shadowed by dark, deep bags that were near a shade of purple. Her hands were gripping the doorframe as though she might collapse again.

All this and she had flinched at his touch.

"Oh, _god_ …" he breathed, feeling his chest tighten impossibly. She was crying, though he couldn't hear a sound, a hand pressed to her sternum. He himself gripped the bath even harder, unable to think. He had to hear her say it, because every cell in his body currently wanted to deny it could be true.

"I tried to stop him," she whimpered, still not looking at him as she sounded utterly lost.

"No." Charles felt himself nearly gag, unable to keep from visualising it. His body began violently shaking. "Oh, please, no." His pleas were useless, but they escaped him anyway in a manner that narrowly resembled grief. He remembered the way Lane had been manhandled, how the masked men had pulled at her clothes and groped her flesh as though inspecting a prize cow at a county show.

His breathing became loud, fierce, like a newly caged wild animal. If he had not been so reckless, if he had only been there to care for her, maybe he could have stopped this. Instead, he'd got himself captured… in which time, his wife had been violated, treated like a piece of meat.

"God, I think I'm going to be sick," he gasped, heaving himself up to sit on the edge of the bath out of the water, ignoring the throngs of white-hot agony it caused. The water felt like it was suddenly suffocating him, far too hot around him. He leant over the edge, gasping for enough air and gagging, before raising his head to look for her. She was kneeling beside the bath now, her eyes wide with panic and concern, but also guarded with shame.

"Who?" he asked, his voice betraying him as it showed him just as he was: desolate, guilt-ridden and murderous with fury.

Slowly, she finally looked him in the eye, leaning into his touch as he stroked her face. Her voice was smaller than he had ever known it, but her answer was clear.

"My CO... Captain Lawerence."

Clenching his eyes shut, he howled in sorrow through gritted teeth, as it felt as though someone had driven a knife through him, except none of this kind of pain could be fixed by his pain medication.

"I'm so sorry," she wept, pressing her head against the edge of the jacuzzi bath, evidently misreading his despair for blame.

"Don't you _dare!_ " he choked fiercely, moving rigidly to grasp the side of her face. She was biting her lip as she always did went she was trying to keep her emotion held in. He knew what he needed as he took her in with his eyes, but it only stoked his fury further that he could barely move to act on it.

"Come here," he pleaded, sniffing hard. When she didn't move and continued to cry just out of his reach, he raised his voice. " _Please_ , Molly, come here. I need to fucking hold you. I can't do this. Please, I can't move and I need you. _Please_."

Before he could stop himself, he had crushed the leaflet in a white-knuckle fist, bowing his head to try and keep himself in check. Slowly, he watched her from his perch on the side of the bath as she took in a deep breath, then another, before beginning to remove her clothes. He hadn't expected it, having assumed she would just let her already damp clothing get wet again. He averted his gaze out of politeness and desire for her to feel safe around him. He never wanted her to feel objectified again. Men could be such animals that way.

Slowly, she sank into the water and he was horrified to see her gasp and wince as her crotch made contact with it. His breathing shuddered at the sight of the bruising on her thighs, leaving him feeling sick again. It was unmistakably in the shape of a hand.

"Molly," he said, helplessly doing nothing but gazing at her, his eyes filled with sympathy and torment.

"I'm okay, Charlie," she replied, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, though it sounded like an automatic reflex. She never liked to admit when she was hurt. Her job was to simply diagnose everyone else.

"But he _raped_ you." The word felt like poison in his mouth.

"Yeah, _alright,"_ she replied scornfully, as though angry. Instantly, she sighed, sorry for it. "I know but I'm alright. Now you're here, anyway."

"Tell me," he pleaded. "Tell me what happened."

Looking at her through itchy tearful eyes, he lowered himself in beside her. Neither could say anything as she pressed her face to his chest, letting her hands roam over his arms. He could barely lift them to wrap them around her, but he did so anyway, even when she tutted at him for doing so. He basked in the feeling of her bare skin, so much of it and so warm, against his, feeling her vibrate as she spoke and flex as she breathed.

"He cornered me, when I was out by the shitter," she explained. "Told me no one would believe the girl who shagged and married her first CO." He could feel her shiver and it hurt him gutturally to feel her fear.

"That's bollocks!" he retorted without thinking.

"Is it?" she breathed, sitting back to look at him, eye to eye, with no obstacle or boundary left between them. "That's why I only reported it yesterday, because I started to feel like he could be right, because he could be! Nothing happened between us on tour, but they don't know that, all them Ruperts and the like who like to judge and think women's place is in the bleedin' kitchen making onion soup—"

He shushed her ramblings quiet then, resting his head against hers as she wiped her fresh tears away. "It's not your fault, Molly. We never consummated our relationship until I wasn't your CO, which is much fucking more than many other people I know have done. Falling for people in your Section is more common than you'd think. You've done nothing wrong, and even if you had, it does not excuse a man touching you against your will."

"I know that, but will a court marshal?!"

Her breathing was panicked as she gripped his hand, tracing the tendons up his wrist. He could sense he wasn't helping, stating the obvious, but it was all he felt he could do. He was a Captain in the British Army, he was her husband, but he couldn't do anything but give her words. Words of comfort and love.

"If only I'd been there—!" he began.

"—Oh yeah, 'nd how would _would_ you have been?" she contested with a laugh, cupping both sides of his face and kissing him quiet. "There are some things even Bossman Charles James just can't fix."

Closing the gap between them again, they met in a firmer kiss this time, one that had them sharing air as they pulled away only a fraction to look into each other's eyes.

"I will fix this," he whispered against her cheek, pressing kisses wherever he could reach. "Together, we'll get through it."

Molly smoothed her hands over the days worth of beard beginning to take shape on his face, smiling as she evidently approved of it. Pulling his lower lip over his bottom teeth, he rubbed his chin over her hand, delighting in the giggle that rose from her.

"God, I missed you," he sighed, humming in both discomfort and satisfaction as he bowed his head against her bare shoulder.

"'Course you did, mate," she smiled. "Wife of the year, me."

With his lips against her neck, Charles grinned, only just resisting the urge to laugh. "You're wife of the year every year, Molly James."

She held him against her for a long while, almost sending him to sleep with the rhythmic stroking of his hair and tracing of his spine. He had never felt so simultaneously at peace and at war within himself, as he was so utterly relieved to be in her arms, to feel safe, yet he was also shaken with anguish. He was not sure he could ever sleep entirely peacefully knowing another man had forced himself on his wife while he was over four thousand miles away.

"I want to kill him," he whispered menacingly, tracing the angry hand mark with his fingers beneath the water. It felt like playing with fire, admiring such a thing. After all, he was a British Army officer. He was supposed to be above vengeance. But, to his surprise, Molly simply leant up to press a gentle kiss on his mouth.

"Join the queue, mate," she said, managing a smile he remembered from long ago, when they had been nothing but man and wife without the shadows of the worst of human kind hanging over them.

At her own confession, he felt a little better. It reminded him how strong she was, how he may want to fight her battles for her, he may feel rage that made him want to tear down whole cities for her, but she didn't need him to. She was brilliant long before she was his and she would remain so always.

What came next felt as easy as breathing, as he pressed his lips to hers and felt his entire body come alive in a way he had entirely forgotten it could be. He groaned in bliss against her, but also in frustration that he couldn't even lift his hands to hold her to him like he wanted to.

"Thank you for coming back to me," she whispered against his shoulder, kissing him there as she moved to reach for the shampoo to wash his hair for him.

"Well, I promised, didn't I?" he jested, smoothing a hand down her calf as she stretched them out either side of him. It felt as they had reversed role suddenly, as he made a inappropriately timed joke to something that had been intended to be intimate and heavy in meaning. It felt good though, to joke. It made things feeling a fraction more normal, even though they weren't. They both knew what a close call it had been, and yet they let this understatement slide. They had both been reminded of the fragilities of life and it would effect them for a long time to come, but it was the British Army way to dwell on such things.

His eyes were closed, but he felt wide awake with all the emotion still coursing through him. Somehow though, his rage her passed, at least for a while.

All she really needed was this, just as he did: someone to come home to when all was done.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Sorry for the wait, y'all. I've been writing this in segments and going back and changing the things because it's a very much 'inside their heads' details chapter rather than an events chapter. I personally not only feel these kind of chapters are really necessary in order to fully cover and explore the horrors of both terror and rape, but I also adore writing them. I love trying to get in these characters heads, though I'm still not convinced I'm as good as some of the other active OG Captain Dawesy writers still on here. (Author of "To Let Myself Go", I'm looking at you shit! How do you do it?!)._

 _Also, I had a conversation with a great friend of mine about her sexual assault experience and it not only really inspired me to write but also really inspired me to make sure I get this right. As Jen put it, "Please don't make it one of those stories where the guy 'saves her'". As per her request, I'm really trying to base this on the experiences of real people , and the numbness and detachment that apparently occurs afterward when you simply can't deal with what's happened._

 _Anyway, I hope you all think this is worth the wait! I'm off to Hollywood next week believe it or mot so I'm not sure when's my next chapter will be but I might sure I'll be inspired out there._

 _Happy reading love bugs! Please come say hi to me on my tumblr (goodgirlwhoshopeful) if you hang in those parts!_

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 **X**

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 _"We are all stinking messes, every last one of us, or we once were messes and found our way out, or we are trying to find our way out of a mess, scratching, reaching."_ **–Roxanne Gay, _Bad Feminist_**

* * *

Charles had always liked to think he valued the simple things in life, even before the terror of war had taught him of the fine line of mortality on which they all walked. People were often surprised to find that he studied English Literature at university, for example; that there was once more to him than simply being Two Section's 'Bossman'.

The reality was he had always enjoyed the serenity of a well-thumbed novel, the scent and texture of the paper and the weight of it in his hands. He had grown up going on annual holidays to Cornwall, where he would take long walks along the most cinematic of English scenery alone and simply sit and read; lost in the calm serenity that was unique only to sitting by the ocean. He had lost count of the number of occasions his mother would eventually venture out looking for him, each and every year, because he would always be gone so long.

One year however, his most dearest of relatives, his cousin Adriana, had found him first. Instead of making him come inside for lunch, she had stayed, sat beside him and pulled out her own novel to read. She was a few years older than him, and on this particular occasion he must have been no older than nine, so she twelve or thirteen. She was inquisitive, even more so than he was, asking him question after question about what he was reading, after which he begun to do the same with her. And so, as they both grew older from childhood to adolescence, this became their ritual, sneaking off from their somewhat chaotic family holidays to hide amongst the long grass and mighty sand dunes for as long as they could get away with.

She had taught him so much in that time. It was because of her that he learned about the world, the real world, that was kept from him by his sheltering, conservative parents: about the horrors of Apartied, the 'evil of the Thatcherism' and all such other politics that he had been too young to understand, and he hung on every word of it. She had explained to him about feminism, the contraceptive pill and all that so casually seemed built to hold men in the power to which they had become accustomed. Every question he had, she would have answer for.

Ada's 'real world', as he called it, reflected heavily on his mind as he began to transition from a boy into a man, when his life began to put such nuggets of previously dormant facts into context.

The first summer he didn't go to Cornwall, too busy with Basic training for such long holidays, he was surprised to find he missed those moments. He had rung the family holiday home's landline that evening, hoping she would pick up. By then though, Ada was too busy to attend family holidays, too; something about a boyfriend in the Midlands, his mother had said.

She had been his first love, in many ways, other than romantically of course, as his testosterone fuelled body tried to separate the adoration of a relative with the affection his body craved from any female around. He had admired and looked to her in a way he imagined one did if they had an older sister, once the confusion passed, but being an only child he of course could never be sure if this were how it felt. She was his first taste of the the fascinating opposing view the opposite sex could offer. She was the first person he could ever remember admiring for the passion and drive in her eyes… but also the shine to her red hair and the kindness in her heart.

Looking back as an older man, he cringed when he thought of how her physical beauty had, despite this, begun to distract him as an adolescent, especially when he knew within a year of learning about his changing body and mind that he in fact didn't ever want her that way. But, he supposed, that was simply how it was to be a teenage boy.

At one point, anything with sharp eyes and soft curves would do; there were many girls at university, and even more during Sandhurst, but by then, he cared little for the distractions of physicality, already tired of shallow insincerity, and found himself wondering if he would ever find a woman whom he could love as purely and simply as he remembered loving Adriana as a boy.

He thought he had found it with Rebecca. She had been sharp-tongued, with quick wit and a mean, impressive ability to drink. He had met her in his final year of university, when she had been an incredibly brilliant medical student with a incredibly work ethic, drive to succeed and long, impossibly straight, soft hair. Their first meeting had involved a lot of alcohol and therefore lead to rather frenzied, clumsy sex. Inevitably, in a time when mobile phones and the internet were just taking hold, this therefore lead to an inconceivable string of casual encounters, in which they would barely manage to make it through a meal before returning to their student digs to have further obnoxiously loud and ferocious sex, almost as though whoever could torture the other more with pleasure would somehow win some sort of game.

It had always been about competition, he realised a long time later, when she began to treat their divorce and their child almost the same way. They had once excited each other because they had riled each other up, not truly because they had shared any kind of connection on a kindred level. If one was being loud, the other had to be louder. If one was being rough, the other had to be rougher. If one succeeded, the other had to also. It had always been about nonchalance, indifference, coolness, as though showing emotion and affection daily or in public was some kind of weakness. It had fitted who he had thought he was then, as a young up-and-coming Officer: the ability to be suffocatingly passionate only in explosive bursts but otherwise remain calm and collected. It was almost a game of who could care less.

In all, it was a game that Rebecca ultimately lost, as once she left university and became a GP, she seemed to lose all passion for anything, Charles in particular. With their excessive drinking days behind them, they eventually found that they did not have nearly as much fun in each other's company as they had thought, but by then it was too late, because she was pregnant and they were married.

Adriana had never approved of Rebecca and that should have been the shrieking alarm he needed. Instead, he had done as he always had and stood firm, stubborn and arrogant that he couldn't possibly have got it so wrong. His true reality only hit him when Rebecca went off with one of her colleagues during his second tour, declaring she couldn't do it all anymore – over satellite phone, no less.

He hadn't even been sad – that's what had really shocked him. He had been furious that he had wasted so many years on a relationship that ended up so counterproductive and unsatisfying for the both of them.

The only redeeming feature had been Sam, the light of his life during those years. He had missed his birth, thanks to the tail end of his first tour – something he would never forgive himself for.

In that, he was at fault. Rebecca may have been cold and seemingly unfeeling so often, but she never deserved to be left to cope with such stress and agony without him. After all, they had vowed to remain, in sickness and in health, not in war.. and yet to war, the Army, his uniform, was the vow he ultimately kept. He had been so frightened by the lacking of his relationship, the floundering feeling it left in him, that he had buried his head Afghan sands instead and let it all fall down around him.

It took the undeniable force of Molly Dawes for him to finally see that final truth; her blunt honesty and relentless, caring spirit reminded him what it was like to truly want to really live again. Suddenly, he could see the beauty in the simple things again. Molly had lifted him from his sorrow and wiped the grit and grime of Afghan sands from his eyes. In her certainty, her effervescence, she had given him his sight back; sight he hadn't even been aware he had lost.

As the sun began to rise in the sky, Charles recalled all this out of boredom, having barely slept. The painkillers made him feel lucid, floating, allowing for him to get a few hours without disruption, but had begun to wear off. Therefore, he inevitably focused his exhausted gaze on his wife beside him, sleeping peacefully with a protective hand on over his sternum, which warmed his heart.

He'd realised that his recollections of her in his desperation had been thoroughly inaccurate, not doing justice to how beautiful she in fact was, littered with countless faint adorable freckles and long lashes that fluttered energetically as she dreamed. As the light of the sunrise spilled through the glass balcony doors and thin, floating drapes, he took her in, nude on her front, allowing himself to stare at her. She had gained more freckles on her face and arms than he remembered her having weeks ago, littered like kisses from the sun. She did look thinner, he thought grimly. Now he was safe, she would eat. He would make sure of it. He had already forced her to eat a banana in front of him after their bath the previous evening, laughing – then wincing – at the way she forced it into her mouth like a stubborn child.

The sheets were just covering her bottom, which he knew was bare beneath them as they had both crawled straight into bed after the intensity of their evening, in which she had confessed agonising secret and then, like the selfless caring spirit she was, washed his helpless body for him.

Though things had ended feeling somewhat intimate and positive, he knew he could not touch her. Not that way, not now.

He recalled how she had whispered confessions into the dark as she fell asleep, sounding mournful and almost embarrassed as she divulged that she wished that he could touch her, that the man who had hurt her hadn't left her so anxious… or so sore.

"I just feel… faulty," she hurried to explain in a whisper. "It's like I'm one of my nan's records, leaping backward to where it's been scratched all the time. Even when it's you touching me, my mind for a tiny moment thinks it's him."

She was ashamed, which was ludicrous but understandable, since women were so often made to feel as though they somehow asked for men to treat them badly simply because they had loud mouths or small clothes. It was a relic of an archaic time, when women were objects first and even then components of a household second, but such sexism was still just as alive. If anything, it was worse now because the world now told women it no longer even existed.

Charles had seen such misogyny in its micro forms many times, he was ashamed equally to say he had often in his earlier days been a part of it, what with being surrounded by squaddies for so much of his life. He had often felt powerless to stop it, aside from cutting the comments off and changing the subject. Now though, he was determined to nip it in the bud, to make Molly see that it could never be her fault. He wanted to tell her it didn't matter, that they had all the time in the world, but he couldn't find the words that felt adequate enough.

"I thought my time was up," he said, only just making out her silhouette in the dark. "But I'm here, alive, and I have you with me." He was only half aware of the emotional mush he was sprouting, but he couldn't bring himself to care, either way. "Lady Luck really has blessed me this time, more than I deserve. I had a second chance handed to me on that bridge… and somehow I've now been handed a third." She had smoothed some arnica cream over his bruises, helping to make his pain subside a little by the time they had laid down to sleep. She had been holding him to her with such strength, as though afraid he might be dragged away at any moment, her fingers toying with the curls at the nape of his neck. Their noses had been touching, their breathing mingling as one as he had finally gotten comfortable on his side, padded out by excess hotel pillows. He had felt so content, he had forgotten his pain almost entirely. "I intend to hold onto this chance with everything I have," he had whispered, puckering enough to press a delicate kiss on her lips. "Point is: we could not make love for years and I wouldn't care, Molly, as long as you're here."

Smoothing her cool hands over his burning ribs, sensitive with all the blood that injury and bruising was bringing to the surface, she laughed at him, her breath tickling his face.

"' _Make love'_ , eh?" she giggled, teasing him like she always did when he said that. He had rolled his eyes in the dark, grinning wide with delight and relief to hear such a beautiful sound. It was a reassurance in itself, to hear her dig up longstanding jokes between them. "You've got bullshit on your chin, Boss," she said, though her usually certain tone was missing.

He felt as though he had been struck, hearing that she doubted him. "I mean it," he assured assertively, though his voice remained a whisper. "You don't believe me?"

"It's not that," she began weakly, though she didn't carry on.

"I fell in love with you surrounded by war and death and a million yards of red tape; we are much more than just sex, Dawesy," he reminded softly, drawing aimless shapes on her back with a lazy finger. "Or had you forgotten?"

"'Course I ain't," she denied quickly, remembering well the regulations that painfully restricted them from being physically intimate for far too long. "I just mean, that was a whole different ball bag, back then. We hadn't shagged, we'd barely even touched… so we didn't know what we were missin'."

He had only just managed to bite back a chuckle as he realised this was probably Molly's surprisingly modest way of trying to communicate she was sexually frustrated as well as evidentially anxious and frightened. Chuckling, then gasping at the burning discomfort it caused, he glossed over it.

"I love you so _very_ much." Feeling her forehead still against his own, he had pressed a kiss to her face.

"Yeah, mate, I know. You d'go on a bit."

He tried to pinch her but couldn't reach. The sound of her giggle was so heavenly he had to close his eyes.

"We have the luxury of time, Dawesy – our whole fucking _lives –_ and how wonderful is that?"

Now, hours later, as she slept beside him, his reverie was suddenly interrupted by a sudden awareness of his bladder. Gently, he rolled away from her, groaning as quietly as he could manage at the pain it caused for him to stand. Turning, Molly hadn't moved an inch and he had to grin. How could he have forgotten she slept like the dead?

Gripping his crutch, he hobbled into the adjoining bathroom as fast as he possibly could, not bothering to turn on the light as the floor to ceiling windows lit the room with the light of sunrise. Reluctantly, he sat down to relieve himself, unable to find the energy or willpower to withstand the pain of standing as he usually would. He was silently relieved Molly wasn't awake to see it, simply because she would giggle about it for weeks just to rub him up the wrong way.

"Charles?" He heard her sleepy call for him as he was rising to wash his hands. What he didn't expect however was for her to call his name again, this time sounding high pitches and panicked. " _Charles_?!"

"I'm here," he called as he hurriedly moved back into the the comforting shadows of the bedroom. Anxiety spiked in his blood as he saw her head round, eyes wide, her breathing now loud and wheezy. "I'm here. I just went for a piss—"

"—Shitting hell!" Instantly, she attempted to get her breathing stable, a hand over her chest as she held the sheets to her body in uncharacteristic modesty. "Fuck – I thought it was all a dream! You were gone! I thought—Oh my god—" As he reached the bed, she had burrowed her face into the sheets in her hands and heaving, evidently trying to hold in sobs of panic. "I thought you weren't here," she gasped shakily, her eyes feeling swollen and puffy with sleep as her pulse hammered in her throat. "I thought I'd dreamed it up."

"Oh Dawesy," he cooed gently, slowly lowering himself onto the bed with a rigid torso and gritted teeth. Gazing at her sooty, grainy silhouette in the darkness, even in the haze of his painkillers, he felt his heart tug violently with a desperate need to protect her from her own fear. " _Hey_! Hey, hey, _shh_! Shh, sweetheart, I'm here—" He groaned as he tried to crawl to her, unable to put weight on his arms. "Ah, fuck, _fuck_ ," he groaned as he rolled back into his nest of pillows. "C'mere," he murmured into the dark. "Please – I can't—" Before he could manage to his words out, she had complied of her own, moving across the bed to help him back into his assortment of pillows. Molly busied herself helping him as she evidently tried to calm herself down. The moment he was comfortable, she burrowed herself against his shoulder, sighing as though she had been given the fright of her life, her shaking breath against his throat.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you, but I just went for a piss," he chuckled nervously, hoping to rouse a giggle from her and take away her fear. "You're not getting rid of me, Dawes." Her lips pressed against his shoulder over and over, which calmed his heart. He tilted his head, searching out the top of her head in the dark to press haphazard kisses there.

"No more wondering," she begged sleepily, her arm lightly draped across his chest in a protective manner that made him feel blessed. "I ain't good at sleeping without you."

He hummed against her fragrant mass of hair on top of her head. "I wouldn't dare!" At his attempt to be funny, she prodded him in the arm. He smiled, relinquishing his attempt at getting a laugh from her. "Alright, wife of mine. I'll try not to ever need a wee in the night again."

When he came round again, the sun was blazing through the thin gauze curtains. As the room came into focus, he almost leapt up in panic, unsure of where he was. He half expected, just for a split second, for a masked fighter to approached and strike him for sleeping, the clang of rusting iron bars echoing in his ears.

"Hey you."

Molly's surprisingly soft voice greeted him, causing his temporary disorientation and panic to dissipate, a sour taste in his mouth. Slowly he rolled to face her as she gazed warmly at him, still with a hint of uncharacteristic hesitancy and shyness. She was not nude and soft beside him as he hoped, much to his temporary disappointment, but was sat, dressed in another pair of – his – shorts and a bikini top, applying sun cream. He squinted, groggy with the effects of the heavy painkillers, somewhat confused to find her sat so close to him, rather than on the massive expanse of bed on her side.

"Good morning." His voice was weak with disuse, though he couldn't keep the massive blossoming expression of joy he wanted to show in his expression, the pain running through him was too much.

He watched as her hands slowed in their massaging movements into her thigh, attempting to rub excess oil into her arms before reaching over to touch him, not that he cared at all if she had covered him in grease. As she shuffled close, he preened and nuzzled into her touch like a needy house cat as she smoothed her warm, soft hands over his cheeks, then up and into his curls.

"How y'feeling?"

Sighing, he bit his lip to keep from grimacing. "Bloody sore. Definitely need more pills. They're on the desk—" He broke off as she was suddenly dangling them in his face, their soft rattle like a siren to his ears. Instantly, he felt himself relax a little more. "I knew there was a reason I kept you around," he sighed with a lazy smile.

Above him, Molly wore a smug expression, admiring the sight of his mussed curls and slightly swollen tired eyes. "Oh – you keep me around, do you?" she countered cheekily, reaching to help him take the pills with water.

"Perhaps it is a little give and take," he conceded with a smirk, groaning through his ground teeth as she helped him sit up straight. The pain was so much worse than he remembered it being the day before, as he choked on a gasp as he tried to swallow.

"Woah there, _Captain Heroics_ ," she halted him, gently pressing a palm to his sternum. "Lemme' get the Volteral, yeah?"

"God, I have missed my medic," he breathed, unable to think of any of his usual eloquent words to describe the massive relief he felt to be waking up beside her. That and suddenly speaking took an incredible amount of effort with the pain in his chest.

"You'll be sick of me again 'fore long, mate."

As she squeezed the anaesthetic cream into her hand, she looked down to find him grinning, evidently wanting to laugh. "I'll try to let you down easy when I get there."

They both exchanged glinting looks, evidently both on the cusp of laughter. However, as the cool cream made contact with his incredibly sensitive bruising, the glinted died, momentarily replaced with a look of blind agony.

"Sorry," she apologised profusely, her accent suddenly more pronounced, "Remember to breathe for me, lovely'," she instructed professionally, though using the pet name she reserved only for him in the most select of situations, hoping to convey her intense sympathy. She smoothed her other hand over his face as she worked.

The pet name washed over him with a wave of relief, filling him with a kind of pleasure and giddy joy he had all but forgotten.

"It'll kick in in a sec. Just breathe, yeah? In and out."

Suddenly, she was giggling to herself. Despite the faint dark circles under her eyes, the expression was beautiful and delightfully familiar.

"What's so funny, medic?" he asked, feigning offence as though he was her Captain still to make her smile more. He was proud to see that it did.

"Just reminded me of one of those birthin' videos, init!"

He rolled his eyes at her, choking on the laugh that bubbled unhindered and unchecked up from his chest. Groaning and cursing, the only consolation was Molly's tender touches across his jawline and down the column of his throat as he tried his best to breathe through it… while she carried on cackling.

"Oi!" he protested, trying not to laugh. "I'm your injured husband! Where's the sympathy?!" He knew he was pouting as Molly's hysteria only worsened. He grumbled half heartedly, lolling his head back against the pillows.

"You and your bleedin' sulks!" she giggled, finally withdrawing her hands from his bruised and tender flesh with a final apology.

"I should pull you up on a charge."

"Oh, yeah?" she challenged, pressing her lips together in the typical way that told him she was laughing on the inside. "For _what_?"

"Rather neglectful bedside manner," he replied nonchalantly, "I haven't even had a kiss good morning!"

As he looked up at her, she felt a bubble of nervous energy in her chest, the rekindling of a very familiar urge to blush and squirm in her, despite the shining bruise on his cheekbone and the dark, tired nature of his eyes.

She raised her eyebrows at him, leaning down and aligning her nose with his, she let loose tendrils of her hair tickle his face, enjoying the way his brown eyes caught the light and became a showcase of more hues of chocolate whiskey browns than she could count. With a touch that was so tender it was almost maternal, she combed her fingers through the curls at his forehead, massaging her fingers into his scalp before gliding through until the curl uncoiled and sprung back into place. After basking in the thrill of their silent communication, she allowed their noses to finally touch, only for their lips to follow. Her lips were soft and hot against his and he instantly had no thoughts in his mind beyond adoration and need for every inch of her. After the horror and tension of the last four days, the pleasure of the moment was so heady he could barely breathe, nothing to do with the pain in his body. In this moment, it was all too easy for him to forget all about the all new shadows of terror that hung over their heads.

Molly drew back to heave for breath, but only enough to look back into his eyes, their breath mingling together as she laid her arms either side of his head.

"I love you," he whispered into the quiet between them, smiling up at her like a man hypnotised.

"I love you more, mate," she murmured, uncharacteristically serious in her response. She usually liked to tease him for his 'mushy' tendencies, though they both knew by now that this was simply a disguise she upheld to hide the way it made her feel. Hazy, bashful, breathless, even after all this time.

"Not possible," he denied with usual gentle, lopsided smile. "I'm just back from the dead, so I should know."

Instantly, Molly went as though as though she was going to strike him, but of course she didn't. "Don't take the piss about that, Charlie! It ain't funny!"

He tried to reach up to touch her and growled in frustration at the pain raising his arms caused. Cursing, he slammed his eyes shut and tried to focus on getting his breathing back under control as it felt like shards of glass were shooting down his chest. "For fucks sake!"

He was warmed to feel her reach down and hold onto his hand at his side, squeezing hard while she decorated his face with kisses that, though small, made him feel dwarfed in love and affection he often felt he didn't deserve. Between them, his stomach growled, breaking the somewhat fragile heavy moment between them.

"We need to get you down to that pool for some scoff, because I don't know about you, but I'm bloody hank!" she declared, suddenly sounding less like Molly James and more like Lance Corporal James-Dawes. "Now, stay put, you heavy bastard, while I call Eggy. That's an order."

"Um, Molly?" His hesitant voice pulled her back almost as much as the hold of his hand did. "I'll need some clothes first."

Looking down, Molly burst into cackled with her head thrown back, having entirely forgotten that he was naked under the sheets at his hips. Leaning down to leave a peck on his lips, she grinned her trademark toothy grin.

He wished he could keep her there, he thought, in that moment, where the outside world couldn't touch her.

"I s'pose if you have to get your glad rags on…" she conceded sarcastically, watching him smirk and inch his head side to side in a slight shake.

"And you say you _aren't_ just with me for my body!"

"Not half, mate!" The comment made her laugh, the sharp exhaling tickling his face, but he watched the look in her eyes change to one that held a thought that was much more somber. She became very quiet and this time her smile was less about bravado and humour but something much deeper and more intangible. Smoothing a hand down his face as though admiring a piece of art, her eyes finally met his again as she tried not to let her expression fluctuate, evidently engaged in some kind of internal dialogue.

"I wish I was 'alf the talent you are at expressing me'self," she sighed. "You know that's not true, don'ya?" Suddenly, her voice was urgent, causing her trip over her words and look away. "I know I can be… _provocative_ —"

"—Molls—"

"—But look where that's got me," she continued, ignoring his attempts to console her. "I mean, yeah, sex with us is fucking mind bending—!"

"— _Molly_ —"

"But you know that isn't why I—fuck—You _know_ I love you—"

"— _Dawes_!" Finally, she fell silent. "Hey, I was just joking!" He looked up at her face, fraught with worry and unease, and he sighed. "Come here," he murmured, his hands twitching at his sides as he yearned to be able to lift the weight of his arms enough to hold her. Thankfully, she lowered her face to lay against his, her forehead hot against his cheek. "What's this about?"

She rocked her ahead in a minuscule movement to imply a shake of the head, remaining stubbornly silent. The only implication of her internal battle was the way she gripped his hand against the sheets, rhythmically stroking the back of his hand with her thumb and tracing his tendons as she often did.

"Naffink," she mumbled thinly and Charles could already sense he would not be getting an explanation out of her now. Something told him this had a great deal to do with the dark shadow of her Commanding Officer lingering over her. "Sorry. Just fragged, tha'sall."

After they'd managed to get Charles down by the pool, Molly brought him breakfast to his sun lounger. Each of the boys, like excitable puppies, each bounced out to meet their beloved Bossman, only to then emotionally all collectively salute him. Molly, who had settled on the end of Charles' lounger, knew her husband enough to know he would be heavily emotional at such a sight, but would manage just about to keep it in.

"It's mega' to have you back, sir," Mansfield managed, the telltale signs of tears in his voice that made the group smirk, Molly in particular having predicted that he would cry.

"I wish I could say the same about being back with you cockwombles," Charles retorted, though his voice was nearly as light as it should have been.

"All thanks to Lane, ain't that right, sir?" Fingers countered in his usual blunt humour.

"So they say, Fingers," Charles conceded, evidently enjoying the banter around him and therefore not rising to the bait as he usually would have.

Molly watched as Georgie made her approach and cut in. "He's still a better person to locked up with than all of you lot put together, so they'll be no laying into the Bossman, alright?"

Molly smiled at her friends, listening to their boundless energy and the upbeat mood she had awoken in seemed to dissipated somewhat, despite the fact it was only just ten o'clock in the morning. She sagged, wishing, for one, that she could lean back into Charles' chest like she had done so many times before when he liked to sunbathe. He would curl her between his legs and force her to stay with him, despite the fact he knew she didn't like sun bathing much. And he called her the Koala!

Charles' foot nudged her thigh, waking her from her blank stare. Blinking up into the sun, she realised her friends were looking at her, laughing at whatever it was she had quite clearly missed.

"What?" she laughed, though the sound did not feel natural even to her.

"Daydreaming again, Dawsey?" Charles chided from behind her, though his tone was warm and their closeness clear to all who heard it. She flushed, laughing easily at herself, though thankful when the group dispersed. The pressure to be her usual self, the Dawesy they knew and expected, felt too much. She felt like a fraud, pretending that she was as she had been… because she was not sure she knew who that woman was anymore.

Busying herself with retrieving sun cream from the bag, she quietly tasked herself with applying it to Charles's skin while they all chattered around her. She hoped they wouldn't notice her uncharacteristic muteness.

As she sprayed his thigh, massaging slowly into the skin almost absentmindedly, her mind feeling as though it was a million miles away. She marvelled at the strength of the muscle under her hands, considering all that his body will have been through to become so resilient… even in the face of a terrorist hostage situation.

"Oi, oi, Molls!" Baz hollered from a few beds down, waking her from her methodical task. "Don't suppose you fancy applying my sun cream like that, do ya?"

"Oh piss off, will ya?" she fired back, the retort harsher than she meant.

"Nah, she's too busy making sure the Bossman is covered, eh, Boss?" Fingers countered, triggering multiple sniggers amongst the Section, evidently expecting Molly to respond with her usual humour. Such banter, before, would have simply triggered further banter from Molly, as was her sunny, Cockney disposition, but today, it inevitably raised her hackles. She wasn't sure why and it bewildered her. All she did know was that a joke that sexualised her, which would have once barely registered with her, now tugged at a newly exposed nerve. She was not sure how she could ever feel comfortable with such things, now she knew what could come of it.

"Strike one, Fingers!" Charles cut in, his tone low and authoritative with only a hint of humour so to not rouse suspicion of something wrong, a move that caused her to raise her eyes to her husband in slight surprise. He wasn't looking at them, though. His expression was unwavering as his gaze sought of her own, filled with a sincerity that implied the magnitude of his unspoken questions. Knowing it wasn't the time for such things however, she just smiled at him easily and went back to her task.

"Thanks for that," she whispered once the boys - all rather bemused at the intensity between their friends - went back to their usual frolicking and all round idiocy. Her hands were now busy cover the other leg, working up to his thigh, untouched by the sun unlike his deep olive arms and calves.

"Of course," he dismissed equally softly, shifting his hips suddenly as he tried not to grimace.

"What? Are the painkillers still not kickin' in?" Looking at his expression of discomfort, she frowned. She hadn't even tried to put cream on his ribs and chest yet!

Instead though, he just laughed a little, through gritted teeth, before opening his eyes and looking at her with a familiar intensity she had not expected; a look that had so often left her squirming in the years she had known him.

"It's just," he began, beckoning her with a tilt of the chin to lean closer. "You might not want to carry out suncream duty so thoroughly in public, love," he whispered, suddenly looking uncharacteristically sheepish. "But I applaud you for your vigilance."

It took her a long moment to comprehend what he was getting at, as it often did when he used words from his vocabulary that she hadn't heard too often before, but when the penny dropped, it did so with a clang.

Looking down at his groin, she could suddenly see the slight hint of exactly want he meant making a slight tent in his trunks.

"Bloody hell—Oh god!" She whispered, covering her mouth. Usually, she'd have thrown her head back and laughed. Now though, the sight of arousal left her feeling struck dumb. "I'm sorry! I didn't think—!"

Below her, Charles, typically, did not seem embarrassed. Instead, he seemed thrilled, handsome bugger. She knew he was always smug at the prospect of making a joke at her expense, as she usually did the same to him. Smirking at her, his eyes were bright like caramel as the sun streaked across his face, making them shining like the conkers Molly used to collect in school P.E lessons when she was meant to be running cross country. He had his lip snagged between his teeth, evidently trying both to hold in his laughter and what he really wanted to say. She wasn't sure if he was aware what that expression used to do to her… or the fact that now it made her feel guilty, because she couldn't go there. Not right now.

"Sorry." The word flew from her and she knew it was not hers. Usually she was the last person you would ever hear openly apologising if I joke could be had instead; usually she laughed things off or made a joke to bask in making things even more awkward. Now though, the idea of male arousal not only made her feel dirty, but also desperately guilty. After all, Charles had survived atrocities even worse than she had. He deserved a wife who could take care of him in every way, she thought, and she could not face him that way. At the moment, the thought of such strength lead only to thought of how easily she could be overpowered; thoughts of guttural arousal lead only to memories of the clammy unwanted skin contact against her own or the scent of unfamiliar sweat.

Suddenly, she had an intense urge to flee, feeling a wave of nausea. Placing down the sun cream bottle, dismissed herself hurriedly, barely computing the excuse that came from her mouth – something about needing a wee. She knew he would be looking at her, mystified, as she left but she cared little in that moment. Hurrying to her room in a haze, she only felt her lungs heave fully again once the door clicked shut and marked her temporary removal from the rest of the world.

Standing against the door, she could do nothing but focus on her breathing, feeling exhausted. She had gone for a run down the hotel's stretch of beach early in that morning, having woken from the recurring nightmare that warped precious memories with Charles into the memory of her rape, covered in sweat feeling stifled and suffocated. She had had to get out and running had always been her coping mechanism ever since her first tour. Thankfully, Charles' painkillers meant he didn't stir at all as she moved from the hotel bed and threw on some fresh clothes, but not before pressing a reverent kiss to his beautiful curls. The last thing she wanted was for him be subjected to anymore distress. He deserved some peace.

Sadly, that did mean however that she felt very alone, despite the fact there was no place she would rather be than here, with her old Section and with Charles. She couldn't find the words to express how numb she was feeling, even to herself, never mind aloud to someone as precious to her as Charles; a man who would internalise all he heard and somehow blame himself for it all. Now, as she stood attempting to grapple with her own chaotic train of thought, it all made her furious, because she utterly should be ecstatic! He, the monster that claimed her against her will, poisoned all that had once brought her joy by burying her under the rumble of her former strength and she hated him for it. Guttural, violent hatred she had not felt before in her entire life, not even during war.

Her insides were still sore and now that she was anxious, they seemed to hurt more. Her skin itched, too and was covered in goosebumps despite the heat. All such symptoms were most definitely that of anxiety and she knew as much, being a medic and all, but she couldn't wade out of it enough to see what she should do to banish them.

Really, if she was honest, she knew she needed her friends, her love, the people who knew how to save her from herself… but she felt minuscule and fraudulent in the face of their expectations; especially Charles'.

She had known the look he gave her like the back of her hand. Ever since their first 'night' together – which had in fact been an incomprehensible entire afternoon, evening and early morning – she had known Charles' sexuality was fierce, much like her own. While he was not nearly as openly promiscuous, she was surprised to discover that he was equally, if not more, flirtatious than she was. She had soon realised that when he had been her superior, he had suppressed a great deal of his personality out of necessity. She had thought him to be rigid, uncomfortable with displays of emotion; the complete Roger stereotype. In reality, he was so much more layered and wonderful, with an innate ability to not only read those closest to him but also to display a wide emotional spectrum openly, especially for a bloke. While sometimes he was partial to his 'sulks', he was also incredibly energetic and cheeky. He had played her at her own game easily on their very first date, firing back quips just as fast as she dished out her own. In all, he was twice the man she even expected him to be… which was why she now felt so guilty for feeling so hollow.

Because it made it all seem as though she didn't care, when in reality she cared more than she had ever given a shit about anything! She suspected it often came across as though she didn't love him quite to the level that he loved her, as was often her anxiety, because she had a hard time expressing it, but she did. _Fuck_ , did she love him – so much she was often breathless and speechless with it; afflictions she was hardly burdened with often.

It was intoxicating, the way he made her feel. It was unlike any kind of affection she had ever known in her life – and it wasn't all grand gestures and extravagance like her Nan had assumed to begin with. Her Nan seemed to have decided long before they were even married that her admiration and adoration for Charles was rooted in fickle things, like his bank balance or his status or how good he looked in his Number ones, despite the fact she adored Charles too. Her dad was the same, though he liked the man less, finding his voice and stature a little intimating still, even now. It said a lot more about the priorities of her family than anything to do with her, Charles had said – and he was right on the money, of course. Eventually, it had come to the point where Molly was able to just laugh at such suggestions because it sadly meant such people would never understand a love of such depth and mutual connection as the one she was. Lucky enough to have found.

She knew herself better by now, and more importantly, she knew her Charles better, too.

Her love for him was rooted more in the way he always made time to kiss her goodnight and good morning, even when their schedules were completely out of sync; or the way he always made her a brew just as she liked it before he made himself a Rosabaya. He even enthusiastically offered to teach her to drive and to swim and then pretended not to regret it when he clung to the car for dear life or, along with her, swallowed half a pool of chlorinated water.

He was mighty and courageous in ways she could never be but did she try. She stood, proud, and liked to watch him triumph, because it felt like she triumphed too… which is she now felt so cruel for shutting him out, but it didn't feel much like she had a choice.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door behind her, making her jump and lose her breath. _Bloody Nora_ , she was more jittery now than she had been even after her first tour!

Eggy's voice came, muffled, from the other side, clearing the fog that had descended around her. "Molly? There's someone in the foyer for ya – Redcaps. D'ya know why?"

Molly felt her heart leap and stutter. Just when she was anxious enough, the military police had arrived. _Fuck_ , she didn't want to deal with this now… or ever. Yeah, never would be better, actually.

"Alright, thanks, mate!" she called, her pulse racing again. All her concentration to get herself calmed down had gone back out the window, it seemed. Barely breathing, she yanked the door open, fixing her best smile. "I best go see what the geezers want."


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Greetings from LA,_

 _So, sorry this wasn't up sooner. I've been having issues with it, if I'm honest, because of how heavy the themes are. On the one hand, I didn't want to include too much 'ironing out' conversations in one go because of how intense and wordy they have to be, considering the subject matters, but at the same time I feel like these subjects are messy and can't really be avoided if you're wanting to make a realistic story... So... hopefully I did okay with this._

 _Again, it's conversational, but I feel it's really needed, because Molly really needs to realise that what happened to her extends to affecting others, too... as well as other things._

 _REVIEW PLEASE WITH ALL YOUR INSIGHTS TO CHEER ME UP / INSPIRE ME FOR WTF TO WRITE NEXT. Thank you all._

LOVE AND HUGS,

Stars Walk Backward

* * *

 _"I've been sleepless at night  
_ _'Cause I don't know how I feel.  
_ _I've been waiting on you  
_ _Just to say something real._

 _There's a light on the road_  
 _And I think you know_  
 _Morning is coming_  
 _And I have to go_

 _I don't know why, I don't know why_  
 _We need to break so hard_  
 _I don't know why we break so hard_

 _But if we're strong enough_  
 _To let it in, in, in_  
 _We're strong enough_  
 _To let it go."_

 **\- "Let It All Go" - Birdy**

* * *

 **XI**

* * *

Molly looked as though she'd seen a ghost when she hurried inside and Charles knew by the sick feeling in his stomach that it was because of him. He ground his teeth and squeezed his hands into tight fists at his sides, furious wth himself as it suddenly became all too clear what had happened. He'd got an erection – A bloody _erection_! – and all but flaunted it at her, a woman who was reeling from a serious sexual assault.

It was official. He was a thoughtless _pillock_.

He remained perfectly still, trying not to let the feelings of anxiety from swamping him. He could barely stand the fact that he couldn't follow her, that he was stuck on this bloody sun lounger while she was hurting.

He wanted to call out to the others, to ask them to go to her, but they didn't know what he knew and she wouldn't want them to.

"Captain James, Sir." Kinders called, rousing him as he snapped open his eyes and looked across the pool to where his colleague was headed toward him with a look of intent. As he came close, Charles felt his hackles rise at the look on his face. "There's a Staff Sargent Frank here to see Molly. Where'd she disappear off to?"

Taking a deep breath, Charles attempted to sound nonchalant. "Think she just popped to the loo." He watched his friend's expression and was worried by how weary it was. "Frank? I don't know that name. Who is it?"

He stood over Charles, only to lean at little, as though unsure he should be saying so aloud. " _Redcaps_ , Sir,"

Charles instantly closed his eyes in dismay for a moment, taking a moment to breathe. "Right." If the military police were here, there would only be more questions. Before Kinders could ask these inevitable questions that, Charles ground his teeth and began trying to shuffle forward. "Help me up."

"Right you are, Sir," Kinders agreed like the keen, able and reliable soldier he had always been. Taking him under his arms, Kinders helped Charles to stand while he growled through his teeth to push past the pain.

"Boss – you should be careful!" came Georgie's warning from across the lounging beds. He ignored her, of course, pressing harder to get himself upright.

"Hand me the crutch, please," he said tightly, rigidly taking it and moving around the pool as fast as he could manage.

" _Sir_ —!"

"—At _ease_ , Lane!" he called back, not even turning to look at her, focusing only on his end goal.

-x-

Molly felt almost as though she was outside herself, even before the questions started flowing and the words started pouring out.

"Lance Corporal James-Dawes?"

Stood in the hotel foyer, all hard floors and shining hard walls, a strangers voice echoed in a way that in her current state reminded Molly of something otherworldly. Looking up from where she stood, she managed to remember her wits enough to stand to attention, saluting diligently to the superior woman in a scarlet beret that now approached her.

"Yes, ma'am."

The woman, accompanied by a less superior officer, came to a halt in front of her. She had a look of pity that made Molly want to run."RMP Staff Sargent Frank," she introduced herself, before indicating to the young man to her left, "and this is Sargent Watson. We're from SIB: Serious Incident Branch."

Molly found herself struck dumb, looking from the woman, all kind eyes and pristine blond bun, to her blank faced dark haired male colleague and back again. Thankfully, the woman seemed to read her expression and carried on.

"Is there somewhere we could speak with you? Privately?" Unable to look away while she was being spoken to, Molly felt her chest flutter with increasing anxiety, despite the fact the woman's eyes were kind. They were also ice blue though… like _His_.

 _Fuck, who was she kidding? She couldn't do this._

"Molly?"

Charles' voice called from the doorway to the hotel's outdoor leisure area and caused her to close her eyes as she fought of wave after wave of nauseating dread. The woman – Staff Sgt. Frank – instantly turned her head to this new voice.

"We can go down here. There's an empty restaurant…" She heard herself say the words, but she didn't have a clue where they had come from. They sounded rushed, even to her own ears, as though she wanted to whisk the authority figures in front of her away and out of sight… which she did, of course. Especially away from Charles.

He made his way into the centre of the foyer as straight and fluidly as possible, feigning being a much less injured man, of course. Molly almost rolled her eyes. That man's pride knew no bounds.

"Captain Charles James, Two Section," he introduced, using a tone of his voice Molly had all but forgotten. The woman saluted instantly, Sargent Watson following, her expression easily giving away her intrigue. She must have been a few years younger than Charles and a few older than Molly – perhaps twenty eight, twenty nine at most. She didn't seem to notice that Molly did not salute... or even stand to attention.

"Staff Sargent Frank, sir. RMP, Serious Incident Branch. We heard of your capture, Sir. The news all have it back home. It's great to see you're safe."

Much to Molly's dismay, the woman was distracted by Charles, her eyes following him with sympathy like he was some exotic butterfly making panicked, tiny clatters at the window, but also with admiration, as though he were some predator like Molly used to gaze at the one time she was taken to London Zoo.

Instantly, Molly felt the urge to drag him away, wanting her away from him, because she knew _that_ look. She didn't like it when women's eyes appraised him that way, which they did very often, even when Molly was right in front of their eyes, wedding ring and all! She knew the look from a lineup because she was sure she had once started out looking at him that way too: eyes following his every move with a glassy, unseeing quality like the awestruck children in the adverts for Disneyland, uncomprehending in the face of the sheer magnitude of what they saw. To her credit, the woman – _Staff Sgt. Frank_ , she corrected herself, scolding herself – didn't sound anything but professional in the way she spoke.

Molly knew that the jealousy in her chest was founded entirely on the irrational footing of panic and insecurity, but that didn't make taking a step to solve the issue feel any less difficult.

"Oh – _yes_ – um – thank you."

 _Typical_ _Charles_ , she thought, modest only where he shouldn't be. She watched him, the way he gripped the crutch at his hip, realising that he had barely taken his eyes off her, barely acknowledging the two strangers. She was immediately conscious that were now stood just strides apart but that even that distance felt unnatural, so unlike them. Usually, if they were in the same room, even when in uniform, they had always stood together, close enough to feel each other's physical presence but just enough distance so that no one would notice their casual touches.

Their new acquaintances seemed to feel the awkwardness too, though of course could not place the reason for it. The Staff Sargent cleared her throat; back to business.

"Molly—" Charles began.

"—We were just about to discuss something of a sensitive and highly urgent nature with Lance Corporal Dawes in private, Sir?"

She spoke in the form of a question, as though asking Charles' permission to do so... _as Molly's CO_.

Molly knew her expression had morphed from one of sheer blank panic into one of amused disbelief, her feelings of dread momentarily forgotten.

She didn't _know_!

Her eyes had been trained on the woman to keep from meeting Charles' gaze and seeing the questions there. Now, she knew she most definitely could not because she knew she'd burst into fits. Within a moment however, her eyes inevitably sliced sideways of their own accord and his expression was exactly as she expected, his tongue tucked into his cheek to try to keep from laughing as his brows were quirked in upward arches.

She had to look away, biting into her lip painfully.

"Well, Staff Sargent, I am sure my wife does not need me to speak for her."

Another slicing peek at him and he now held a close-mouth smile. She watched for the briefest of moments as the muscles in his jaw twitched with the tension of keeping in his humour. His tone had been so matter-of-fact, so breezy, which made it all the more hilarious. Cutting her glance back to Staff Sargent Frank and Molly could hardly bear to look at her, feeling sorry for her as her cheeks a slight pink hue with the embarrassment of being caught up in such a lack of research.

"Oh – _oh_! I had no idea—I apologise, to both of you." She flushed, back stiff as a board as she held her chin in the most perfect of formation posture, evidently hoping to stand firm in face of her error. "I wasn't informed—I assumed—"

"—Say nothing of it, Staff," Charles assured, sounding breathless, though Molly couldn't be sure if it was because of suppressed laughter or the pain she knew he was in. "It's all rather extenuating circumstances. All of this is hardly in the rule book, is it?"

"Indeed."

This was it. She couldn't avoid the subject any more. Staff Sargent Frank turned her ice blue gaze back to Molly and with it, Molly's nauseating dread returned.

"There is an empty restaurant down here, you say?" Staff Sergeant turned in the direction of the corridor. Then she said smiling, a kind expression not usually seen on one's superiors when in the army. "You are welcome to have Captain James present, if you like, though not as your Allocated Officer. I'm afraid, you'll have to choose someone with less of a personal connection for that."

Molly knew all this would be said before it even was. It is what she had been dreading and avoiding since the moment is he entered. She knew what Charles would want. The problem she did not know what it was she wanted. On one hand, she could not imagine feeling such horrific emotions again, having to relive such a traumatic event, and being able to handle it without his direct support. On the other however, she didn't want him to hear it. She didn't want him tainted by it, too.

"Can I—?" She broke off her own speech as she looked into the woman's face just to keep from meeting the dark eyes she could feel burning into her. "Can I just have a minute?"

Staff Sargent Frank seemed to, thankfully, take the hint, excusing herself and her colleague as they made their way to find their make shift interview space. Molly chose to watch them go, the silence left behind in the echoing room heavy and oppressive, made only more intense by the weight of Charles' gaze as he hobbled what was left of the difference between them. She waited until the last possible moment to look at him, knowing that she was walking on a razors edge already.

His expression was even more questioning than she expected, mixed in with a furrow between his brows that could have been misconstrued for frustration or one of his sulks if it hadn't been for the pinched nature of his eyes. She knew with one look that he was feeling guilt, that his inner dialogue was already on a one track course of self blame and internalised frustration.

"I'll come with you," he said without a beat, a statement, not a question; his eyes suddenly possessed a certainty with the density of cast iron.

"No," she said, far too quickly, far too flustered. She watched the certainty change, shift, dissolve. She watched him as his mind jarred, knowing it was doing so by the way his body physically jarred too.

"What? 'Course I will."

She had to look away for a moment, almost angry with him for his insistence, when all it really was was a sign of his love, his dedication to the vows they made.

"Please, Charles," she whispered. " _Please_ don't make this harder."

She could feel she had tears building, pressing against the banks she had spent the last twelve hours building back up.

"What are you talking about?"

He sounded genuinely confused, which for some reason only made her more impatient, suddenly desperate to get away from him and this conversation she so wanted to bury. "I'm just saying: I don't want you with me!" she shot back frustratedly, her voice was suddenly harsher and louder than she ever intended.

He actually flinched then, almost as though she had struck him. The confidence in his eyes and his stance, which had been rooted and nourished by years of intimacy and co-dependency between them, slipped, giving way to blatant hurt.

In that moment, she hated herself more than she ever had.

"In the interview, I mean!" she hurried, trying to rescue the situation, but it all felt hopeless, like Afghan sand slipping through her fingers. "I don't want you to hear that."

His brown, whiskey eyes, usually so bright with a mischievous, energetic spark, were dulled into an expression she had only seen a handful of times before, the first being after he thought she was involved with Smurf… and the second after their very first domestic row. It had been about his role in the army, since he had all but decided to give up his commission for good, for her. She had come back from her second tour without him and decided to refuse to allow him to do it, realising when she was out there that just as the Army was a part of her, it was a part of him. It had been an admirable endeavour, what he had fought against her for that night, but somehow become tangling in matters of pride.

Just as she knew it would now, too.

" _God_ , Dawes – how can I support you when you won't let me?!" he questioned sharply, his expression becoming smooth and blank in a way she recognised meant he was trying to hide his hurt.

This response made her bulk a little, as it almost felt rehearsed, as though he had repeated those exact words to himself before. "I just don't want to hurt you!" she replied defensively, making sure her voice was lowered again. "I'm ain't gonna' let all that ugly shit infect you, too!"

He was shaking his head, looking away. "What is far more likely to infect me is my wife _keeping_ it all from me—"

"—I won't! You'll know everything. I just need time!" She was suddenly so tired, reaching up to press the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. "Please, Charlie. You know what it's like to be fragged. I just need _time_. I promise."

Not allowing herself to wait for his response, she closed the gap between them and reached up on the tips of her toes to press a kiss to his cheek, the unfamiliar tickle of his new beard making her lips tug in a slight smile. Meeting his eyes, she held his gaze to attempt to portray her apology as sincerely as possible.

 _"Please don't hate me,"_ she whispered, a gentle hand daring to caress his hand at her waist that clutched the crutch. It was her deepest fear, after all.

He snorted, rolling his eyes, a tiny trace of his usual energy returning. "As if I ever could, you daft mare," he replied, using her own slang as he often did now when he was being lighthearted. The return of his low, friendly murmur and slight twitch of a smile giving her hope that not all was lost as she shuffled of to face the demon she had boxed and forced under the stairs.

He had gone back up to his room after that, alone, attempting to try and set his mind back onto a more rational course. Yes, he was hurt and surprised that Molly didn't want his support when he'd been so willing to giving it – eager even. He felt so guilty, that was all, and to subsequently be told he couldn't do something that would ease that guilt had left him confused. This had been his first opportunity to feel useful, since missing the entire incident left him feeling completely useless. He hadn't been able to be there for her when as a husband he should have been there most, not to mention also as a superior Commanding Officer.

Coming to rest on the comfortable chair on his room's balcony, Charles was so incensed he barely even registered the pain in his body. He hated not knowing. Not knowing meant he had no hope of being in control – something that, as a British Army Captain, he had become very unaccustomed to. Molly liked to joke with him about his control issues.

 _"For a cheeky geez who ended up shaggin'' his rebel, gobshite medic, you have a hilarious issue with giving up control, mate,"_ she had said to him the first night it became clear her kink was in fact giving him control.

 _"I was never just 'shagging' you, Molly! Jesus!"_ (She had laughed at his sensitive nature; he took such offence to suggestions that he could ever be considered to be so flippant or nonchalant).

Power play, he originally thought, would have made him uncomfortable, since being her superior so long had drilled into him an inbuilt need to find such consorting completely inappropriate and then, later, to trigger a deep fear of being caught. However, he soon found he could satisfy her kink easily, almost playing a role as a caricatured version of 'Captain James, the Bossman', as she confessed she had fantasised of so often.

He usually grinned like a soppy idiot when he thought of her, of anything to do with her, especially now he had her back after being certain he would never see her again, but now his own imagination dampened his spirits. He couldn't stop seeing it, imagining what must have happened to her in order for another man's handprint to be bruised into her skin. It made him almost gag, thinking about it, despite the fact he considered himself to be a rather hardy man, after seeing all sorts of horrors after five tours.

He was filled with rage and that rage had now accidentally transferred to being taken out on Molly with her decision to exclude him, when he knew in his rational mind it was entirely her choice to do so. It was his role as her husband to support her in however she choice to cope with what had happened to her. He had no right to dictate, he knew that, which only made his rage all the worse because she shouldn't have to cope alone. He should be able to shoulder her some of her burdens.

She would disagree, of course.

He sat there in the shade of his balcony for a long time, moving only to retrieve bottles of water, (albeit at a very slow pace).

"You can't blame yourself, you know, Boss," came a voice behind him, ripping him from his recurring, vicious thought cycle. Georgie came into his view, offering a small smile that told him she knew everything.

He opened his mouth to ask her how she got into his room, but then realised he didn't care.

"She told me about it all because she wanted my advice on how to tell you," she expanded, coming to sit down beside him and lowering a plate of fruit to the table that he only just registered she had been carrying.

"And what did you say?" he asked, neglecting titles and all other remnants of the hierarchy they usually lived by.

"That it didn't matter," she replied simply. Her plaited hair was curled over her shoulder but fell and swayed against her back as she leaned in a little. "That you adored her anyway like the soppy git you are."

"Right you are, Lane," he murmured, giving her a grateful smile, ignoring her dig at him. Once upon a time, he would have felt incredibly awkward having such a conversation with someone under his charge, but after finding someone like Molly and almost losing his life, he had a new perspective. It all felt incidental, now. "Sometimes I'm really not sure she believes me."

Relaxing into the adjacent chair, she shook her head wistfully. "I'm not sure anyone who's insecure about their worth ever does, Sir."

His ears pricked and he tried to sit up straighter, breathing through his teeth at the intense discomfort it caused. This response had surprised him. "Surely she can't _still_ doubt how fucking brilliant she is?!" he sighed, exasperated.

Lane shrugged, giving him a half smile. "I can't speak for her, but she does let things slip sometimes, especially when she's had one too many topples." They shared a knowing look, both having experienced drunk Molly and her mouth many a time. "She just looks up to you so much, that's all."

Charles felt surprisingly emotional to hear such insight, swallowing hard to try and keep any sign of it within. He shook his head, wanting to laugh. "She shouldn't. There's nothing I can do that she could not do with ten times the conviction and with Cockney charm to boot."

"Aye, could be said she's taught you a thing or two in the personality department, Sir," Lane teased, looking out at the view from behind her sunglasses.

He smiled easily at that, happy to agree. "I was a pretty miserable bugger before she turned my life upside down, it has to be said."

They sat in companionable silence for a while after that, the only sound being their chomping on the occasional piece of fruit, though Charles struggled to lift his hand high enough to feed himself.

He found his mind casting back to the early days, when he hadn't quite realised his admiration for Molly and when she had still been bashful around him. They had enjoyed long, warm afternoons in a park local to his parents beautiful home, her head in his lap as he leant against an old Oak tree with some old copy of some old book. The reason he didn't remember which book was simply because, in the end, he hadn't even been reading it, far too distracted by stroking her silky long hair and staring down at the splendour that existed even in the curve of her ear or the peach like fuzz of her delicate earlobe.

"Y'staring at me _, Charles?"_ she had joked, despite the fact she wasn't looking, laughing at him through teeth that nibbled at her lower lip.

He had flushed, unable to help it and realised there was no point at all denying it. He had lowered his face to hers, thumping down the novel on the blanket, and managed just to leave a whisper of a kiss on her still, smiling lips.

"Are you smirking at me, _Molly_?" he challenged with his tongue tucked into his cheek, feeling privileged after all the months of regulations and red tape simply to be able to be able to use her name.

She scrunched up her mouth and nose in an expression of false modesty and innocence. "Can you blame me? Y'are _bonkers_ , mate."

"Can you blame _me_?" he echoed, managing to kiss her face only as she deliberately dodged his attempts to meet her lips with a giggle. "You are gorgeous."

Her scrunched expression had turned entirely sincere, as she had evidently doubted his words. She tried to cover it well, making a joke – _"You think this is somethin', you should have seen me when I was a blonde bombshell, mate."_ – but it had done little to hide her true feelings. She was uncomfortable under his praise where his praise wasn't based on her work, an admirable but similarly infuriating trait.

Even from the very first time they'd been intimate, she had often managed to diminish the compliments he tried with such integrity to convey. After their first date, they discovered one another for the first time in the cozy shadows of his childhood bedroom. He had been so lost and driven mad in his lust, infatuation and admiration that he could not even recall a great deal of the first few times, only the utter haze and whirlwind of bliss he had felt, his jaw continuously slack in sigh after sigh of relief and near disbelief. He knew he must have repeated how utterly exquisite she was over and over, almost in a trance-like state, because later as they had basked in the afterglow and breathless rest too exhausted to move, she had told him she had never even known a man who knew such words; much less one who whispered them into her ear like some kind of prayer.

She then confessed what she had been mouthing as she met oblivion under him for the first time.

"I was saying thank you, thas'all," she said, her face, pink and sticky with exertion, flushed an even deeper red as she tried to hide. He pulled her face out of her hands, kissing her until she elaborated. "To whoever it is up there, some god or fuck _knows_ what. I ain't ever believed in a god… but I say thank you all the time that you're still here, you know," she then whispered, stroking her thumbnail up the scar on his abdomen like she was tracing a delicate rose petal. "Every time I look at you – like a reflex."

He remembered distinctly how it rose a trail of goosebumps and shivers along his skin. He had been stunned into silence, so struck by the gentle innocence of such a profound statement that he hadn't known how to respond. Now, thinking back on a moment of such gravity, it not only made his chest feel inflated and warm with sentimentality, but it reminded him of the kind of woman she was: one who's every reflex was to think of others first.

After a long period of contented quiet, Charles must have drifted off to sleep because when he awoke, it wasn't to the sight of Lane in the sun that greeted him but an empty chair. He was roused by a vague awareness of a delicate touch to his face, making him jolt at the unexpected contact and then subsequently wince.

" _Shit!_ " Molly soft voice was one she only used selectively, mostly when she was treating people. Her expression was somber, filled with a look of remorse and guilt, her eyes puffed up and rimmed with red that softened any hardness in him at being woken. "I'm sorry - I didn't mean to wake ya'," she sniffed, evidently trying to ignore her tears.

Looking down at himself, he realised she had covered him with a towel now the sun had moved low in the sky. The small gesture made him want to sigh. He shook his head and gave her his best smile, forgetting his grievances easily at the sight of her upset. "No, it's fine. Look, Molly, I'm sorry. I should never have snapped at you."

She looked at him in the eye then, seeming to find her courage, and managed a smile, though it wobbled instantly. Slowly moving to stand right beside him, she indicated for him to shuffle forward in his seat.

"Can I…?" Her words faltered, as though she hadn't got enough energy left to even say them. "Can I just…have a cuddle, please?"

She sounded so small in that moment, he wanted to weep. He looked at her for a long moment, concerned that she felt she had to ask. He sighed, a soft sound with a slight hint of humour, and twitched his hand at his side, raising it as high as he could. "Get over here," he said, clearing his throat to keep himself from showing his intense sympathy. Knowing already what she intended, he managed to move forward a few inches using his hands on the side of the lounging chair. With a cheeky, childlike smile despite her tears, she slipped in behind him, letting her legs come to bracket his as she encouraged him to lay down against her, his head against her collarbone. While it hurt to get to this position, he sighed with relief once he was inclined against her, beyond delighted to have his head in a position where he could lay against her chest if he wanted; a familiar, soft, buoyant pillow.

"There's my koala," he sighed, contented, suddenly wrapped in the scent of her, all apple shampoo, sun cream and the salt of slight perspiration. Turning his head, he was struck by her uncharacteristic quiet, her arms tight around his shoulders as though he might suddenly disappear. He was suddenly aware of how much he'd missed her childlike need to give physical affection. So often had she hugged him in their bed with all four limbs in their first few months of going out that she had long earned herself the nickname of a particular species of clinging mammal.

Now, as he lounged back against her, she sat up straight behind him and buried her nose into his hair, wrapping her arms around his neck from behind like he had done to Sam a thousand times. It left him feeling thoroughly cared for, but one look down at her legs bracketing his, her feet still only reaching the tops of his shins, and he was reawakened to how small his wife physically was. She made him feel so protected, so looked after and trusted and yet she was also so small.

As proven by recent events, no matter how strong willed she was, she couldn't fight off a man his size when she was caught off guard. Looking down at the difference in their size, he felt suddenly emotional, proud beyond measure of her for fighting so hard against a monster of a man, even if she did ultimately fail to get away.

He could feel her breathing rhythmically against where his neck met his shoulder, blowing air out her mouth as though focusing entirely on her breathing, probably to keep from letting her tears boil over. He tilted his head to look at her, his eyes drifted shut as she leant her head down to press it to his. As he leant against her this way, their faces were just about level and he liked that. She couldn't avert her eyes to try and disguise her pain from him; instead, it was there, unguarded and laid bare before him. They sat like this, dozing, until Molly felt her bottom going numb.

"Right, y'old git," she declared, sitting up and sniffing aggressively to try and rid herself of her tears. "Get up before your legs go numb, 'cause I ain't liftin' ya'."

He so wanted to laugh, but managed to hold it in for the sake of his ribs. He went to sit up, gasping, only for her familiar hands to be around his elbows, helping to lift his weight. " _Oi_ ," he huffed, looking down at her affectionately as she helped him to stand and slowly walk back into his room. "Less of the old, you."

She helped him down onto the bed, fluffing the pillows, ever the divergent carer. Once he was down, propped up against the headboard in a nest of feathers, her hair tickled his face as she leant over him. She looked exhausted, red raw with ugly, relentless tears, but all he could see was how beautiful she was.

"Sam sent us a Whatsapp," she said softly, clambering over to sit next to him incredibly ungracefully.

Charles' ears pricked. How he yearned to hold his son. He hadn't even thought about his phone, which must have still been buried in the bergen that Kinders will have packed for him. Molly's second hand iPhone was cradled in her palm, the silly phone charm she insisted on keeping from her sister making a familiar jingling noise that reminded him of home.

"What does he know?"

She swallowed, letting him pick up her hand and tenderly intertwine their fingers, watching the movement as though it fascinated her. "The press got hold of the video—but thankfully they weren't allowed to show it before watershed, so y'mum said he ain't seen it. They made sure not to have the news on at all and they talked with his teachers." He could feel himself physically sag with relief to hear his son remained ignorant. "All he knows is you've been too poorly to call, but that you're on the mend now."

"You spoke to mum?" he asked softly, sounding wistful despite his tiredness. Looking up at him, she could see he was weary, not just physically but mentally, obviously yearning with thoughts of home. She squeezed his hand, rubbing her finger over his wedding ring that glinted in her peripheral vision. His expression became guarded as he seemed to be preparing himself for a blow. "How was she?"

Resting her chin on his shoulder, she looked up at him through her lashes, hiding behind them as she felt unease rise in her throat. "Bad," she whispered earnestly, her voice low. "Obviously, she was a mess." Charles felt guilt press down on his chest like God's own regulation six lace holes were pressing down on him. Molly seemed to sense the guilt without a word, lifting her hands and smoothed them over the beard that had been left to grow over his jawline, unchecked, for the best part of a week. It was long enough now to no longer itch and to feel somewhat calming as she threaded her fingertips through the short, fine hairs. "You're her baby, after all."

Something about the way she said it made him look at her, snapping his eyes open to study her. The words felt heavy, laden with a sentimentality so thick it bordered on… _empathy_? As though Molly herself could identify with such a parental dedication. "She was speakin' to me as though I was any better!" she added, suddenly sounding far away as she pressed her lips to the cotton clad shoulder, breathing in his scent. His hand squeezed hers hard, a sign of acceptance and reassurance in equal measure, the simple movement stoking up her emotions as she recalled the stress she had been under. "God, I was a _state_ ," she whispered, playing her face against his shoulder with an eager tenderness that resembled a clinging toddler, subdued by their tears. " _Am_ a state."

He lowered his face to the crown of her head, burrowing his nose in her hair. "I can only imagine how I would have reacted in your shoes," he replied back, equally quiet, as though haunted by the very thought of it. "I'd have suffocated in it, the panic—,"

"—Yeah." She choked out the single syllable just to keep him from continuing. "I kept seeing my life without you in it and I—," She curled into herself, her arms hugging his arm to her chest as she buried her face into his shoulder to keep from looking at him. "I was so fucking terrified." She attempted not to let a sob escape, but it came away, each one rising unexpected and unwanted like vomit. "I just feel so…dirty. I tried so hard," she whispered, hiding her eyes from him, a tremble in her voice, "to get away." He could feel her shaking through the tremble of her hands. "I promise I did."

His stomach lurched, his heart plummeting at desperation he heard. The fact she spoke as though she had to convince him, as though there could be any doubt that she had not tried to fight off the man who assaulted her, made him despair. "Shh," he hushed quickly, suddenly realising he was not sure he wanted to hear anymore. He turned his head to try and see her face in full, her lips colliding with the edge of his face as he did so. "You don't have to explain anything, Molly."

"It feels like I do," she confessed quietly. "But the worst bit is I know I shouldn't but I just can't shake it…"

He felt so angry on her behalf in that moment that he pulled himself onto his side, ignoring the pain that shot through his upper torso and left trigger a loud groan out his mouth. She was already protesting what he was doing, but he ignored her, as he often did. Once he could fully see her, now snugly laying side by side, they were also eye to eye. His hand found her face, despite the hot, white shards of agony in his sides, desperate to comfort her. She instantly leaned into his touch, her eyes closing just before more than one tear could fall. They were so close in their new position he could feel her every shaking breath against his face, her distress clear by the way her hands were trembling too.

"I should have fought harder," she whispered, unaware of how much her self-blame was almost physically hurting him.

"You _cannot_ think like that." he managed, moving his arm that wasn't strapped between their bodies around her middle, safe familiar territory for them both, looking hard into her eyes. "It's the same as our job. You can't play it over when shit hits the fan – you know that."

There was a moment of tense quiet until another sob, dry and guttural, broke it. Charles felt his entire body to rigid at the sound, much like it did for months on end whenever Sam had cried as a newborn, except this was worse because he had caused this. "I know… but I just can't _bear_ it!" she keened against her hand as she pressed it again her mouth, jaw tight with gritted teeth as heavy tears made familiar tracks down her face. "You deserve so much better—."

The level of her self-blame left him aghast.

"—That's not _true_ , Molly!"

"Well, I'll be buggered if I know!"

He couldn't move to pull her to him like he so wanted, so he bit down hard on in the inside of his cheek as his own throat began to swell with emotion, though it seemed to do little good. He was shushing her, much like he did when Sam cried, but this time his voice quivered as though he might weep, too. He only then realised that his hands, squeezing hers hard while the other tried to lift and cup the back of her bowed head, were trembling with anxiety. Throw him in a war zone and he could protect, strategise and even kill without a single slip, but give him a crying wife, girlfriend or mother and he felt like a pre-teen all over again.

"Don't cry! _Please_ don't cry," he pleaded, unable to manage anything more. Somehow, his skill with wording had left him. "I have no words other than that I am _so_ sorry—,"

"—Don't say sorry!" she dismissed instantly, sniffing hard and wiping her eyes. "Don't you dare say sorry. _Jesus_ , you've been through enough—,"

"—But most of all that I'm so proud," he interjected gently, his voice hoarse and low in he way she knew meant he was trying not to join her in her weeping.

She fell quiet instantly, aside from the fragmented breathing as she tried to stop her tears, looking up from his now damp shoulder to where he was looking down at her with an adamant look of passion and drive she couldn't remember seeing in him since their wedding.

"I did _nothing_ —," she sneered, the derision evidently directly inward, not at him. "I couldn't even fight the fucker off—,"

"I don't care," he replied with a quiet air of certainty, bringing the volume of their conversation back down to an intimate level. "I'm _so_ fucking proud," he reintegrated, pressing his face down against hers despite the clear discomfort it caused him to lean his head down. She was conscious of the sticky nature of her tear-soaked cheek against him, first his forehead, the tickle of his now outgrowing regulation untaxed curls and then his own cheek as he moved against her like the lions Molly used to love to watch at London Zoo, skin to skin, face to face. She remembered reading at the time that cats of all sizes rub their faces against others to mark their territory, by making sure their scent was left behind.

She wondered if that was what all men did too, in their way, if this marking of possession was what they intended when they walked around Westfield shopping centre with their arms almost completely hooked around their girlfriends necks like the women were an extension of them, their latest accessory. (She could just about recall a past life, when she had been one such girl). Maybe that was why men always wanted to shove their tongues down strangers throats in bars, before they had even answered for the girl's name. Maybe that was why some cornered strangers in the dark and forced their way into their bodies.

Maybe they all saw women as something to claim. After all, her father had.

Lawrence _did_.

But then a tiny voice reminded her, the information would also say such preening and touches were sign of affection when a lion to rub itself against another lion, not just a patriarchal labelling tactic. Mothers did it, too, head butting their cubs almost in their aggressive need to love them.

Under Charles' touch, she had to believe that such touches could be gentle and based in nothing be affection, too. After all, his sweet disposition was so often so aggressive it left her breathless, as though his need to be gentle held as much force behind it as his need to be in control, to be the boss, even to breathe.

She had to close her eyes, as he began dropping sporadic kisses over her face with a sudden, but gentle, urgency, as though their were oxygen and she was choking…which is many ways, she was. She wanted to tell him to stop, that he shouldn't be proud. What kind of soldier was she, if she couldn't fight off one man when it truly mattered? But all that left her mouth were the wheezing, fragile exhales from the back of her throat, pathetic sounding groans, almost as though he was hurting her, but they both knew what hurt was none of his doing… and hardly visible at all.

"You are _fierce_ ," he whispered, his breath, smelling subtly of mango and beer, fanning over her face. "And I want to scream it on every fucking rooftop that you're my wife."

"Then you're mad," she choked, shaking her head as though his suggestion was ludicrous rather than at all plausible.

He had his face pressed to hers hard so hard it almost hurt. She could feel the solid density of the front of his skull, the flutter of his lashes a millimetre from her own, his breath blowing over her face rhythmically like the coming and going of the tide. His hand was holding her there, so she couldn't back away like her nerves so desperately wanted her to, to back away from this conversation, before all the ugly inside her leaked out and made him realise she wasn't the woman he kissed goodbye in the barracks car park all those weeks ago.

"No," he whispered, surprising her in his answer. She had expected him to assume she was joking. She wasn't sure she had been.

She dared to look up, her eyes having been trained on her nervous grip of his other hand. His dark eyes, even when marred with exhaustion, pain and slight swelling, spoke to her in a language almost as clear and eloquent as the one that came from his mouth. Now though, they were darker, since they weren't in direct light, but they still left her pulse skipping; although now Molly couldn't distinguish for what reason. It felt much less like desire… and much more like nerves.

"I have no shame, Molly James," he said, with an ease that made her envious. "I haven't had since the day I coded in that helicopter—,"

Her eyes flinched shut, her entire body clenching against the imagery, remembering the moment immediately following like yesterday. _He died! In the helicopter! Three times they had to bring him back!_ Smurf's distressed voice rang in her ears, as unforgettable as the sight of Charles wrapped in blood stained foil and breathing tubes that had followed. "It happened again," he continued, pausing to relax the hand that clenched his against his thigh, smoothing his thumb over her knuckles, "of a kind."

Her surprise must have been written on her face because he smiled, though the expression held within it something else, more whimsy. "I don't know how close I had come to death yesterday in comparison, but…it was close enough for me to see it all again, like before." He had told her of what he remembered of his near bleeding to death only after many a glass of wine – (or was it bottle?) – during their first night together. He had seen himself, his dying self, from above, like all the stories said could happen, he said. He could remember the face of the people who saved him, who brought him back, the third and final time, which made a Molly less sceptical that it was rubbish. After all, how else had he been able to describe medics he had never actually met, if it were not true?

Prior to the third and final time, he had said his first and second 'dying' had been different. He couldn't recall where he had been, he said, but it wasn't the present. He had said it was like trying to recall a dream while he was already beginning to wake; so much of it slips away like sand through your fingers, but all the same, you can feel it's grit and texture left behind on your skin. You knew the sand had once been there.

"All that was ever good in my life flashed past me… and it was all you… and Sam, _of course_ , but mostly it was all you: visions of you in your short shorts; of the way you cackle when you're laughing at me; how beautiful you looked at our wedding; even the memory of the first time we were ever alone, tending to my blisters."

"When you wouldn't stop looking at me," she interjected softly, an observation they had discussed before. It hadn't escaped her notice that day that his eyes had been trained on her completely as she went about her task. She hadn't dared look up – he made her nervous, back then – but, as was an innate ability in humans, she had been able to sense his gaze, heavy on her like the oppressive Afghan sun.

"Yeah," he chuckled gently, a now predictable grimace following as his ribs protested the sudden exhale of humour. "In truth, I think I was already feeling protective over you, not that I knew it then. You had just been under fire, a target, and you were my new man, too, of course. It was all meant to be professional. I wanted to quiz you on Smurf, after what had happened… but then I sat there, eye to eye with you as you went about your task without an ounce of hesitation at the grim state of my feet, and suddenly I couldn't stop looking. I could see a brightness in you, even then, and I wanted to know you... That, and that was the first time you made me laugh."

She watched him, now speechless, though her lips quirked upward at that last memory. She never had been one to receive compliments well, but such an ability felt even more implausible now. She felt uncomfortable hearing it all, despite the fact she had heard it all before – he had a habit of telling such insights to her when he was drunk. This time, his words flowed easily, as though he had prepared them. Perhaps it was simply that he was sober. She was shocked to find she had nothing to say, her throat feeling closed off by her unspent emotions and inward trepidations. Still, his face pressed to hers, nuzzling her temple with his nose, he continued.

"I saw all the brightness from my life jump cut and race out before me just like they say happens when you're dying," Molly openly watched him with interest now, her tears slowing. For Charles' sweet disposition, he still didn't discuss death all too often. Army indoctrination, no doubt. "Perhaps this time was just a hallucination, from the hunger or the adrenaline of relief. I… I don't know why such horrific things have to happen. I don't know if there's a God, or why, if there is, why he's just a cruel, vindictive monster…but I do know that a world full of dark makes that which is bright all the more precious…. I know goodness when I see it," he finished, his gaze shifting from a look that said he was far away to one that left her feeling as though he was looking right into her thoughts.

Molly felt herself inhale softly, able to back her face away from his enough to see his face fully. She so wanted to look away from the raw intensity in his eyes, but she also felt trapped by them, half between a rabbit in a snare and moth to a lightbulb, as she always had been since day one on the tarmac at Brize. She felt so unworthy of his naked, unfiltered admiration, even now.

"It's always going to be all you, Molly."

Then, suddenly, there was a tear, a lone droplet, escaping from his eye, suddenly glassy and round; it's trajectory slow and somewhat fascinating to watch down and over the curve of his roman nose. It was as though it carried with it a weight he internally carried with him, with the slow speed it rolled. "Please don't cut yourself off," he whispered, looking down at her hand, where he was rotating her wedding ring. "Please don't let him take away that brightness."

Guilt surrounded her like a humid smog, leaving her having to focus on her breathing as she was faced with a whole new perspective from her own. In doubting her worth, she was hurting him. I'm doubting herself, she was, by proxy, doubting his feelings for her, and therefore doubting all the wonderful times they had had. In that moment, she could see, not even in his pale pallor or his swollen wounds, but deeper still. She could see she was not the only one hurting, readjusting.

He must have seen her guilt in her expression, because suddenly he was shaking his head in the restricted space. "Stop it, Molly. Stop that!" He tone was harsher than he had intended, almost a plea as he nudged her nose with his. His tone was suddenly much more resembling Two Section's 'Bossman' than Charles, her husband. "What happened isn't your fault in any fucking way, do you understand me?"

He watched her swallow hard, evidently trying to be brave. "Yeah, Charlie."

"Please say it," he said, trying to be conscious of his tone to keep of softer.

"I understand," she replied, rolling her eyes at him. It made him smile more than it should, her sass.

" _What_ do you understand, Mrs. James?"

His use of that civilian title, one of her many titles that thanks to her Army rank was barely used, made her pay more attention. His face was smug, evidently still very flattered and pleased when he could call her by his last name.

She sighed, suddenly exasperated, evidently struggling with his demands. "Charles—"

"— _What_ do you understand Lance Corporal?"

After a long moment, he watched the fight leave her, though he could tell she still needed convincing.

"What happened isn't my fault in any fucking way."

He smiled, though his eyes were red with the slight hint his withheld tears. He was unable to help himself, despite how smiling made his swollen face ache. "Oh, how I _do_ love a keen and eager soldier."

Now, she rolled her eyes aggressively, evidently trying to stop herself from smiling, preoccupied with a sudden internal one eighty.  
She couldn't allow herself to poison the beautiful memories they had, twist her current opinion of herself so that she couldn't even look back on them, because where would that leave Charles? After all, those very memories, by his own admission, had kept him alive when he was dying.

She closed the gap between them now completely, kissing him with a renewed vigour she hadn't thought she would possess again. He made a sound of relief, sorrow and pleasure all rolled into one as his beard added a friction to what was otherwise a wonderfully familiar reunion. Suddenly, his hands were in her hair, despite the fact she knew it hurt him, and hers were in his too, pulling the curls on the back of his head as she squeezed him to her with all her might.

By seeing her Bossman at his weakest, she was reminded of how strong he was and how strong he always remained, so often for her sake, even when he was crumbling. The least he deserved therefore was for her to try, to focus on mending.

For Charles, she would try, even though every step felt hopeless.

She would lick his wounds with the strength and certainty of a lioness happily, even when she felt like a fragile bird on the inside… because it was all he had ever done for her.

"I love you, you nutter," she breathed as she broke away from the kisses just enough to draw in much needed air. She didn't say it as often as he did, mostly because she found affection a lot harder to swallow than humour and other such lighthearted things, so when she did, she knew he treasured it.

"I should hope so," he whispered, looking at her with the look of a drunk man, quiet and distracted as he surged forward to pull her bottom lip between his, each kiss open mouthed and fierce.

"Yeah, well," she repeated, "You're alright, I'spose." This time it was a giggle.

Their smiles met in another kiss, clumsy and warm, firm but slow.

"' _Alright_ '?!" His flat hand smoothed over her spine, his smile pressed against her cheek. "Charming!"

"No more charming than 'ditto', mate!"

The words come more confidently now than they ever had before, perhaps because now she knew how much she had to lose… and what it was like to lose it, too


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Hey y'all,_

 _So, I've been dealing with family stuff this last few weeks that's really set back my muse in my head, therefore any conversation about these lovely two to get my inspiration back up (and give me something to think about) would be much appreciated!_

 _Because of these unfortunate distractions I've had, I've been working on this chapter for a while, so I decided to cut what I've been writing in half to give you something to be going on with. I hope this satisfies for a bit while I try to get the next part finished..._

 _Poor CJ isn't going to be a happy bunny. But I promise it won't last._

 _xxx_

 _Stars Walk Backward_

 _(P.S. as usual, the quotes at the beginning are inspiration. Usually they're songs or prose that remind me of Molly, her resistance, or of Molly and Charles' love. Gabrielle Aplin's song below is so beautiful and every time I hear it I think of these two, my current muse... and their ghosts, of course.)_

* * *

 **XII**

* * *

 _"Oh, today I'm just a drop of water_  
 _And I'm running down a mountainside._  
 _Come tomorrow I'll be in the ocean._  
 _I'll be rising with the morning tide._

 _There's a ghost upon the moor tonight..._  
 _Now it's in our house._  
 _When you walked into the room just then,_  
 _It's like the sun came out._

 _I'm an atom in a sea of nothing,_  
 _Looking for another to combine._  
 _Maybe we could be the start of something..._  
 _Be together at the start of time."_

 **— "Start Of Time" by Gabrielle Aplin**

* * *

They say that scars mark out the map of your life and that, if you are lucky, love can fill these lines like rivers, nourishing new life.

Molly was not sure where she had read such a thing, which once upon a time would have meant bugger all to her. (It was most likely in one of Charles' poetry collections that she glanced at whenever he left it outside in their little back garden when he fell asleep on the sofa.)

She would have been sceptical of the truth in such flowery words, if Charles was not such a concrete pillar of proof of how love can endure and nourish no matter how deep your scars. After her interview with the Redcaps, she had felt somewhat more comfortable in herself again, just a little, after he kissed her and held her, easing her into a state of heavy joy. There was no doubt that such a feeling could only be temporary, like the bruises on both their bodies and those much deeper, but she let herself enjoy it all the same. She could see a glimpse of her old self, though it was fleeting, as she recognised the gleam of happiness in her eye that only Charles could bring.

She had gone to dinner with the others that evening, saved from having to discuss her interview any further with Charles, at least for now. They both seemed to reach a metaphorical impasse, realising that there was no rush. As long as they were not in denial that they had demons that needed exercising, it would do no harm to simply ignore them, at least for the duration of Decompression, and so that's what they did. Action reports had been filed, interviews carried out. For a few more days, they were free to simply breathe a little.

Therefore, that evening they joined the Section and Molly was surprised it was a relief to be in their company, despite the slight whirlwind of chaos the boy's always left in their wake. None asked any difficult questions – they knew better than that – and all simply seemed overjoyed having their old Under Fives family back together, of a fashion.

She recalled once upon a time being so terrified to be with them, because it meant lying to them every time they comforted her about Smurf or mentioned Charles as their Bossman. They had nagged her to back and beyond about why she had been reassigned, confused why she could no longer be their medic. She had told them it was because she wanted to go back out there, and since she wasn't just a soldier, she could do just that, mentoring. What she didn't say was what she guessed they all knew by then: that it was also because of Smurf; not only the shit-storm that went down on tour, but, all too soon afterward, losing him. None of them had understood why Smurf had lost it aside from Brains, whom Molly learned much later had grown wise to her crush on the Boss and disinterest in romance with Smurf long before the others. They had all watched on at that checkpoint, barely able to hear an intelligible word as Smurf had engaged in a shouting match with the Boss; an unimaginable thing to do as a mere Private. Smurf had shaken it all off before he died, shouldered the blame, said it was his mistake, that he thought he had seen a weapon in the hands of the villager, which was why he shot the poor man's goat. The others seemed to swallow this nonspecific excuse, perhaps because he had been so reckless more than once prior… or perhaps it was simply because the alternative, which just so happened to be the truth, no doubt seemed so implausible.

Watching the lads piss about in the bar while she sat flush up against Charles, Molly couldn't help but think back on that time of small white lies and how heavy they had felt. Charles had decided he was going to give up his commission, all so he no longer felt the need to hide, but Molly had fought him on that, frightened the boys would treat her differently. They had, too, when she had finally told them after her second tour training medics. They had howled and shrieked with laughter when she told them alone, but the moment they realised she was serious and were then faced with the two of them together, every single one of them had been silent and awkward, even Fingers, much like they had been when she first joined the Section.

She couldn't entirely blame them, she rationalised, but it still left her panicked that she had lost the brotherly connections she had treasured. This had not lasted, of course, as soon they were over it enough to begin taking the piss instead, chiding poor Charles for how much he 'loved a bit of medic' at every given opportunity.

Fast forward to the present and she had sighed happily as she observed how these same men didn't even look at she and Charles twice, despite the fact they were sat flush against each other, intimately quiet and introspective as they watched the rest of them bantering. They had all begun drinking after they had finished their delicious local grill. Despite the fact the British Army would never condone that squaddies got plastered, they always did of course, mostly thanks to losing tolerance while on tour. That evening, even Molly, a seasoned drinker, found that four beers left her face feeling pleasantly numb and her lips tingling. She found herself laughing with such enthusiasm that her sides hurt, but she could not even recall by the next morning what had been so funny. Even Charles had got a little tipsy, despite the fact that he should not have really been drinking on his strong pain meds. She knew he was drunk when he began gazing at her with ogling eyes when she wasn't looking at him – and even when she was – blinking sleepily and smirking. While the lads were being loud, debating and laughing, he whispered soft, slurred nothings from just above her ear – so many, in fact, she had not been able to help but aggressively roll her eyes.

"You're _wasted_ , mate," she had giggled, bopping his nose with her index finger, or rather she intended to, but her alcohol-impaired depth perception meant she actually poked the corner of his eye. His nose wrinkled upward as he chuckled in response, an expression she had come to know like the back of her own hand.

"So are you, Mrs. James."

She couldn't argue with that.

They had been sat so close that she could feel the heat of his thigh against the length of her own, his fingers toying with hers against it. Usually, they would never have behaved like this, with such blatant affection and abandon of the regulations that frowned upon emotional involvement, even if it was during Decompression… but then, they would never normally be together during such a time, since they could no longer work together. As Charles had pointed out, none of this was exactly conventional.

As it was, she had cared little in that moment. All that mattered was that he was here… and so was she… if a little fragged.

" _Oi_ ," she had giggled, having to tilt her face up look at him when they sat side by side. She flipped her hair over her shoulder; a show of mock defiance. "That's Lance Corporal to you."

He had sniggered again, his eyes half closed as he rested his head against the padded love seat bench they were squashed into, with only just enough room for two. For hours, Charles didn't appear to move much at all, just observed and chimed in every so often. Perhaps it was because of the pain he was in, but more likely by the look of him because he was sedated up to his eyeballs. That being said, his fingers were still restless, as they always were, interlocking with hers only to slide at a snails pace up to her fingertips and then over, caressing her rough, battered knuckles. She often wondered if he realised he was doing it. He always had a way of making her feel as though she was precious, despite the fact her hands were far from elegant or pretty, dry from her manual work and the heat and marked with tiny scuffed and callouses. He touched them like they were fascinating… much like he touched her elsewhere, too.

"I have always liked a woman in power," he whispered against her ear, nearly falling over his own words. It hadn't escaped her notice that she felt the whisper run through her like electricity, lust setting a fever across the back of her neck in a sudden flush. If she hadn't been so frightened at the prospect of anyone getting that close to her, she would have certainly pushed the boundary further, thanks to the brazen nature provided by alcohol. As it was, she had just given him a smirk – a thin disguise of her true fears, which, for once, Charles could not see through. His choice of booze and pills was her temporary saviour.

—x—

" _Moll_."

Eggy's voice penetrated through her dozing as she recollected on their time in their little Decompression bubble. As she readjusted her senses, it took a long moment for Molly to digest where she was: half asleep in a military aircraft, her bottom numbed to buggery. Her friends were around her, in a line to her left and opposite too, perched in their two parallel lines in the very loud, slightly chilly and uncomfortable transit plane. They were supposed to be belted in, but one glance down the line and Molly could see that they weren't. Baz and Brains were currently engaged in a very intense and almost aggressive looking game of travel checkers. Beside her on her right, slightly removed from the group be a metre or so, was Georgie, in the medics seat, overlooking the fold out stretcher seat, situated on her other side parallel with the wall of the plane. If she leaned down, elbows on her knees, Molly could just about make out the familiar head of dark curls of the man that lay there, albeit somewhat begrudgingly, as they set off.

Molly had placed herself at the end of the row, opposite where Charles as Captain would usually sit, had he not been injured, so she could be as close to him as possible. Opposite her instead was their replacement Captain, a woman whose name Molly could not remember for the life of her, mostly to do with how little sleep she had had in the last week, but also because she had made all but one appearance since Molly's arrival. She had spent the entire rest of the time on the wire with London apparently, and had wanted to keep out the Section's way once it was clear that they would not be requiring a replacement Captain in the long term. She seemed kind enough, if a little timid for this lot, Molly had thought.

What Molly had not expected was to feel such a yearning to be at Charles' side, even when he was only two paces away. She was used to feeling so independent and liking it, but now she felt shaky and on edge, as though she expected someone would tear him away from her at any moment. Perhaps such panic and anxiety was normal, after experiencing what the horrors of loss and grief could feel like. Either way, she did not enjoy it, feeling so needy. Thinking back on the last few days, she realised how naive she had been to assume that the few days they had together in the sun would erase whatever it was that she could feel spawning inside her and slowly gnawing at any peace she had managed to find in her nut. They had only had four days… but, whenever they were allowed to go into their bubble, her and Charles, it always felt like four years... and she was sad to be leaving it behind.

Blinking away the blurry sleep of her eyes, she turned to her friend and superior, who was leaning toward her as though about to mention something classified. His eyes were darting between her and the stretcher over her shoulder. "I think Georgie might need you…" he said, the words laden with meanings unsaid.

A soft, panicked noise roused her from her sleep-ridden haze and confusion, snapping her gaze back to where her husband lay, watching almost numbly as Georgie moved from her seat and began moving her hands over his front. Frowning, Molly realised she was trying to keep him still, despite the fact he was already strapped onto the gurney. More distressed sounds roused from him, loud enough for the boys directly at her side to turn their heads, and then instantly pretend they hadn't. Molly's heart throbbed with empathy and anxiety, watching his hand that rolled over the end of the gurney seat twitch with the soft, upsetting sounds. He was dreaming.

Before she even quite processed what she was doing, Molly threw off her safety belts and moved to take Georgie's place in the medic seat before anyone could protest. She knew she shouldn't; she was not his medic, nor even in the Section. They were not on duty, of course, but there were still lines that should not be crossed. Molly, though, no longer had the energy to care.

She drank in his face as though she had not seen him in days, noting the pitched, pained expression on his sleeping face. His cheekbone, lip and eye were a dark bruised colour now, angry shades of burgundy and purple, but not nearly as swollen as they had been. His lashes fluttered as his mouth was open a little, sounds of distress escaping as he brow furrowed suddenly, his head twitching and sending a reactive grimace and whine through him in repercussion.

"He's going to hurt himself if he keeps that up," Molly said anxiously, keeping her voice low so that their nearby fellow passengers could not make out her words over the very loud drone of the plane engine.

"Let's hope he settles," Georgie agreed lowly, moving to shuffle through her medical bag. "He wouldn't want them to see him like this."

Molly nodded mutely, looking over her shoulder at the neat lines of comrades behind her. They looked up to Charles and she knew by the way they were trying a little too hard to appear busy and distracted that they had mostly heard him and were almost as uncomfortable at the sight of their Bossman in distress as she was.

Her hands had a mind of their own, tenderly smoothing over his bearded cheeks and his forehead, stroking him like her mum used to do to her whenever she would come in crying over Arten and seek sanctuary in their bed. She should not be touching him like a wife in front of the his Section… but she could not bear to see him so frightened. Not her Bossman. He was usually so ironclad in his resolve and strength that had become an anchor to everyone and anyone that knew him.

He was mumbling unintelligibly, his voice moving up and down in pitch as though he was begging. The aircraft suddenly shook a little, nothing untoward, rocking Georgie was was crouched on her feet without a seatbelt. Charles flinched in his sleep at the sudden move, as though trying to move away from an invisible hand. In doing so, he pulled against his safety belt, fidgeting his hips as though in panic and no doubt making his own pain worse.

"His ribs!" Molly stressed aloud, only just managing to keep her voice a near-whisper so the nosy buggers behind wouldn't hear. " _Bossman_ ," she murmured, barely able to stop herself using his name, as lowly as she could, leaning down to speak to him against his ear. She tried to pretend her voice wasn't shaking. "You're just dreaming. Wake up." Looking up at Georgie as she crouched at Charles level with a concerned expression pressing her stethoscope to listen to his chest, Molly tried to remain as calm as possible. "He's panickin', G," she said needlessly, her hands fidgeting to help. Molly watched him toss and turn, or at least try to, and therefore begin fighting against the restraints that stopped him from rolling off the gurney.

"Boss," Georgie said clearly, gently bracing his body on his shoulders as he rotated in his sleep. " _Boss_!" Suddenly, something clicked. "Oh, shit, I'm such an _idiot!_ We were tied up – by Shabaab!" Georgie breathed. "God, I should have thought about that before I belted him…"

"He's probably dreamin' about it," Molly sighed softly, hurrying to undo the seatbelt, latching onto her friend's train of thought. "Poor Charlie," she whispered, feeling weighed down with sympathy, smoothing her thumb over his deeply furrowed brow from where she sat, glad that her body was blocking her signs of affection from the group. He whimpered again, making her cringe. "He wouldn't want them to see this," she whispered worriedly, smoothing his uniformed shoulder affectionally and picking off an imaginary lint. "We should wake the poor bugger."

She inwardly had already been fretting about Charles and how he would cope with being put on medical leave again. He had struggled with his leg and the rehab it had required for all those months while she went off on her second tour, her first without him. He was a soul that hated to feel idle, usually filled with boundless energy that even made Molly feel exhausted at times; particularly when it involved going on a 'Christmas Day walk' after she had stuffed herself with Alison's roast dinner… or running a local 5k just to see who would be faster. His leg bothered him these days if he attempted such long runs, so he was often even more restless for lack of being able to expel it all. Now though, she worried all the more, seeing how he was fraught with demons. She was swamped with a fresh wave of guilt. How hadn't she noticed over the last few days that he was suffering even in his sleep? Had she really been so self-involved?

"Boss!" Georgie called, slightly louder, lightly tapping his cheek to rouse him. "Can you open your eyes for me?" Molly watched his eyes flutter, his breathing still erratic as his movements, unbeknown to him as he slept, were only putting him body through more pain. " _Boss_!" Georgie repeated, loud and clear. Molly held her breath as he flinched at the sound, as though frightened into wakefulness by raised voices.

His sleep-ridden brown eyes came into view, glassy and unseeing as they darted left and right to take in his surroundings, evidently looking for the threat he was dreaming of. She felt ill to see the fear there, something she was all but unaccustomed to. His breathing was fast, panicked, thanks to his dreaming, which only lead to more chokes and gasps as he registered the pain it was causing him.

"Wha—?! Molly—," he cried, or attempted to, but his voice was strangled as he instantly tried to sit up, grabbing her arm as though worried she was in danger.

" _Shh. 'Ello, mate_. It was just a dream," she murmured, noting the temporary frightening lack of recognition in his eyes. "You're okay!"

He seemed to look at her for a long moment as though he couldn't quite believe she was there, his eyes watering. Though Molly couldn't quite bring herself to believe he was about to cry. She hurried to assure him, repeated hushing him as Georgie helped to hold him down, groans escaping through gritted teeth. "Shh, _breathe_." His breathing was shallow and erratic and she watched as his perception of his body's pain came back to him, robbing him of breath even further. "Shh, you're okay. _Breathe_ ," Molly repeated in her best calm, no-shit medic voice. She pinched the bridge of her nose, attempting to kerb the arrival of a headache. Her other hand, hidden and subtle against the canvas, curled into his hair, unable to resist comforting him.

"I'll get you some relief," Georgie said in her clear, confident tone, pulling out some medication. "Try to focus on your breathing, Boss. I know it hurts. Squeeze Molly's hand. Do you want the stronger stuff? It's been a long time since you were dosed up."

Molly reached down, taking in his upside down features, and held on tightly to his hand. He instantly squeezed it, almost hard enough to make Molly want to exclaimed out loud at the discomfort, but she held her tongue. Looking over him, she noticed a slight sheen to his skin, indicating the stress he had been under in his night terror; there was no way the aircraft was even remotely warm, even when you were wearing two layers.

To her surprise, he was trying to shake his head against the canvas while also attempting to get his breathing back under control. "N-no, Lane," he gasped, closing his eyes a moment as though to collect himself. "No morphine." When his dark eyes opened again, he was looking right up at Molly and she almost felt his soul right through her in their honesty. "I don't want – to – be hazy – for Sam," he added, still tightening his grip on her hand. Molly felt her heart expand three sizes. He was always looking out for others before himself, even when he was in agony.

"Alright. Here are some ingestibles," Georgie conceded. Molly did not miss the surprising amount of sympathy in her friend's voice. Usually she was quite detached when she was working with a patient. "But you'll need to sit up to take them."

Molly winced with the sounds he made as they propped him up enough to swallow the pills, because it almost felt as though she could feel his pain too. They both apologised profusely when it was done because his strangled gasps were so desperate, as though he was moment away from pleading with them to stop.

"Sorry," Molly whispered close to his ear once they were finished, smoothing her free hand over his hairline so lightly it could almost have been a figment of his imagination. "They won't take long to kick in though, big man. Promise."

He made the slightly of nods in acknowledgement, his eyes never leaving hers as she then sat back in the seat properly as he turned his head to follow her movements.

"Why are you—," he broke off his own speech, battling with the pain, "—apologising?" He managed a tiny smile, though it wobbled. "It's your job… Medic."

Molly couldn't help but grin back. "Yeah, so you best do as you're told, mate, or you won't get any of the good stuff." The joke fell on deaf ears, as they both knew they were putting on a show. Neither were interested in saying anything aloud. All Molly wanted was to comfort him in a much clearer way… but it would be put on a charge.

As she sat back in the medic's seat, Georgie gave her a wink and mouthed that she would sit in the seat Molly had previously vacated. Looking around curiously, Molly noticed that no none was looking at her, not even the new Captain. If anything, they were all being suspiciously ignorant, considering she knew what nosey buggers they all usually were. She stared forward, noticing the slightest hint of old graffiti on the opposite wall of the aircraft, some pointless memento that some faceless squaddie on his way to war had felt the need to scratch there.

"Dawesy."

Her head snapped back to Charles, his low gravelled voice barely loud enough to be heard over the engine, but it was like she was hard wired to hear him even from a mile away. "The medic advised me to hold your hand. For the pain. Best do as she says."

He spoke with such coy humour, even when in pain, Molly was thrown back to when he had been her Boss. The exact tone suddenly reminded her of all the times he would toss a comment over his shoulder, his tongue tucked into his cheek as he was always so bloody pleased with how funny and clever he thought he was; he had been flirting with her, she realised in retrospect, in plain sight.

She had let go of his hand to sit back straight, but now he was trying to move his hand towards her along the canvas. Automatically, she reached over to take it, knowing no one could see from the angle but hardly caring if they did.

"Well then, I'll suffer through it, since it's a medic's order…" she whispered, grinning as she momentarily forgot the tension of moments before and could think of nothing but the soppy smirk he gave her in return. "You're alright, love," she added quietly, breaking character because she couldn't resist making his cheeks flush, as they always did when she called him by pet names. It made her smirk behind her other hand.

"Bit _familiar_ , Lance Corporal," he joked, his chest sounding tight as the words were half hearted. "Someone might just think you have a thing for me."

She barely kept in the laughter that suddenly bubbled in her gut, overt and almost hysterical considering the joke hadn't been that funny. _God_ , she really was fried.

"Shit – best not," she replied, biting her lip. "Someone might hear and tell my husband." She watched delighted as he smiled fully this time, despite his weary eyes. She knew from previous experience, he liked this game.

" _Husband_ , eh?" He closed his eyes as the plane rolled, his form stiffening momentarily against the pain. After a beat, he was looking up at her again, his head turned in her direction. "What a lucky chap, having his own personal bed nurse—,"

She instantly poked him in the soft flesh of his exposed neck for that comment. He made a noise of protest, but the cheeky bugger was only grinning even wider.

"—He's a bit mouthy, too. Bit like you, sir."

He suddenly all but choked on his own saliva."' _Mouthy_ '?" He suddenly looked so desperate to laugh that he might burst. "Molly James… calling _me_ 'mouthy'?!" She knew, if it weren't for his ribs, he would be howling by the look in his eye. He had his lower lip in between his teeth as his body shook with repressed laughter, only for his to then choke on winces twice as crippling. "Now I've heard it all!"

She felt her stomach clench with glee she felt at making him laugh. Laughter was their connection started, after all, in the old days when it had been the only kind of intimacy she was sure she would ever have with him.

"Well, y'have to admit, you _are_ shouty... _Sir_ ," she shrugged, trying her best to wink at him but suspecting she looked like she had a twitch. (The title felt alien on her tongue these days, since she hadn't worked with him in years. Such formalities only appeared now during particular _intimate_ moments between them, when he would play Captain... and she a mere wide-eyed private). Where they held hands, his thumb had begun its usual restless trails along her tendons and knuckles, leaving tingling patterns in its wake.

"I'm only shouty with people I – really like—," he replied somewhat rigidly, evidently growing weary with the game as he closed his eyes, but not before giving her an affection smile that crinkled at his eyes and make him look utterly soft.

"Don' stress y'self about the dreams," she whispered needlessly, feeling a need to say something but was unusually lost for words. "No one heard." It was a lie, of course, but it felt necessary. Why add salt to his wounds?

He did not answer, though the look her gave her begged her to both quit this conversational topic while also wanting her to hear all he wished he could say, without him having to say it.

"How long until we land?" he asked, his voice tight with discomfort.

She stroked his temple in minuscule movements, reacquainting herself with the peach softness of his skin, the exact position of his mole. "Just three hours," she replied, looking down at him with sympathy, suddenly desperate to draw him a bath and spoil him, away from prying eyes. Not that she would be able to for a few hours minimum when they returned, with the surprise his mum had planned… and not that he knew that yet. She chewed her lip thinking of how displeased he would be when he found out he wasn't going home to quiet... but a party.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Hey y'all,_

 _Life has been horrific... and wonderful... and horrific again. This chapter has been a work in progress in my iPad through quite a whirlwind of a few months: through my family being shattered (don't ask)... through being personally invited to Taylor Swift's house to listen to her album and get a hug (YES REALLY)... and through many, many journeys to London that just got me my first TV job._

 _So, as you can guess, it's been unfinished for so long, I decided to give you the section of it I'm happy with, for all your waiting. I want you to relaise though that this muse literally never leaves my mind, even through all of that... So, I haven't forgotten y'all._

 _I hope you can all be patient with me... and with Molly. We've both been through the ringer._

 _xxx_

 _Stars Walk Backward_

 _(Inspiration via my blog 100% will always be greeted with MASSIVE ENTHUSIASM, so if you're ever around and want to discuss these two, my story or just CJ's hair... hit me up goodgirlwhoshopeful xx)_

 _P.S. I'm trying my hardest to make this stuff realistic. I hope you can appreciate that it's difficult for all of us... especially me._

* * *

 **XII**

* * *

 **This chapter (and all following) are dedicated to TIME Magazine's Person(s) of the Year 2017:** **The Silence Breakers.**

Thanks to women as brave as you... the rest of us might live in a slightly better and bolder and fairer world than we did before. After all, to break a solid silence is like breaking a brick wall...

No means no, no matter who you are. Thank you for reminding the world of that lesson.

(If you have no idea what I'm talking about... Please go look this up. Women stood up their sexual assaulters and now they're Person of the Year. What a feat. I like to think Molly Dawes would be one of them, too).

* * *

When they finally landed on the tarmac back at Brize Norton and managed to get Charles vertical, Molly rushed through helping to unload all of the kit and equally hurriedly wished each of the cockwombles farewell, knowing she would no doubt see them soon, once they'd all gone home and realised how dull and bizarre it was to be back in amongst 'normal' again. Once she was done, she reached down and picked up Charles' bergen along with her own and Georgie came up beside her, looking uncharacteristically grey and slow.

"You look shattered, mate," she said earnestly though the words were filled with affection. Looking over to where Charles was hobbling away from Kinders as he nodded him goodbye, Molly made sure to lower her voice. "You don't have to come tonight if you're knackered. Truth is, he'll be a proper sourpuss when he finds out his mum's organised him a party at all." Georgie flexed her neck, throwing her bag over her shoulder just as Elvis sauntered on by, hurrying to assist his struggling best friend. "For a big mouth bugger, he really don't like being the centre of attention."

She said it and laughed, but Georgie didn't join in, seeming preoccupied pretending not to be looking over at where Elvis and Charles were negotiating the heavy doors around Charles' crutch. Taking a moment to watch her, Molly sighed, knowing that look all too well.

"He's a A-grade wanker," she whispered, hoping her words would offer some reassurance that she too did not approve of her husband's best man's behaviour. "Sadly, he's known Charlie so long I ain't got a chance of hoping he won't be at the party."

As they started walking with a sense of purpose, Molly found she could not look away from her friend's profile. She really was exquisitely beautiful, despite how tired, bruised and fragged she looked and how ridiculously she drew on her eyebrows – (as though she even _needed_ to do such a thing!). Elvis was utterly mad to pass her up. Momentarily Molly was flushed with envy at her friend's natural olive complexion, noticing the curve of her long, slim neck and the perfect curl of the tendrils she had managed to get into a similarly perfect plait, but she tried her best to stomp it down.

"Don't worry, I'll be there," Georgie said softly, forcing a very brittle looking smile. Her fingers, bound together thanks to being broken by her attacks, met her face as she deemed to suddenly have an itch. "It takes me an age to get North from here anyway; may as well get a good night's kip first before I have to face my gobby family again."

Molly falsified a smile, suspicious as to why her friend was allowing herself to be within ten foot of the wanker that jilted her, because she never had before. What's more, she shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the truths she was not at liberty to disclose to Georgie about the gathering at Royal Crescent. White lies are allowed, she told herself, though she wasn't convinced even after she thought it.

Moments before entering the waiting room where his family were no doubt desperately waiting, Charles was restless, frustrated, battling with the restrictions of his injured bones. She joined him, at his side, saying a mock goodbye to Georgie, (she knew they would in fact see each other in a few hours). She could feel the nervous energy roll off him in waves suddenly, despite the fact she was not touching him. She walked close to his side, close enough to feel the heat of him, as she carried their kit. Momentarily to her surprise, he stalled just shy of the door, his breathing seeming to bother him.

Instantly, her paranoid diagnostic mind whirred, reminding her that there was still a chance that his ribs could splinter and puncture a vital organ, or that the medics at Mombasa General could have missed a fracture or head injury in his scans. Smurf's pale, uncomprehending face flashed through her mind, a grim and jarring reminder that even the greatest of doctors could sometimes miss something if it was small enough… and the consequences of even the tiniest bleed could be life-shattering.

"Okay?" she murmured, giving him a reassuring smile that no doubt looked as fragile as it felt.

He nodded quickly, ever wanting to be the strong, self-sustained Captain figure, but she knew from the shine of his widened eyes that he was far away, struggling to resurface from whatever mental web he had caught himself in. Instantly, she dropped the bags and gently grasped his arm, halting his movements on the crutch. The rest of their colleagues had all but gone, in a rush to see their families, so she allowed herself the luxury of lifting her hands to his face and neck, forcing him to look her in the eye.

He tried to pull back she noted, chastising her with a simple, _"Molly, please––," which_ she pretended didn't sting a little, for making such a move where their colleagues or superiors might see them, but she held firm anyway. Reluctantly, he met her eye, revealing to her the anxiety that shined so clearly behind his usual professional screen.

"I _am_ fine," he sighed, automatically. "I just…" She watched the tick in his jaw as he gritted his teeth. "I'm not ready for the… _questions_."

"Then don't answer," she replied easily, smoothing thumbs over his cheeks. It felt so alien to feel the beard still there when he was in his uniform – it wasn't regulation after all. The only reason he still had it was because he could not lift his arms high or steady enough to shave and he had refused to allow anyone to do such a basic task for him without the question even having been asked. "If they think they can stick their beaks in, _I'll_ smash their kneecaps."

He smiled at her in a way that told her he wanted to laugh, his nose wrinkling upward in the manner that made her flush with pride. "Lord help them," he muttered dryly, trying to take in a deep breath, he body faltered as pain spasmed with the expansion of his ribs. The twinge triggered a reactive twitch in his fingers which ghosted her side. "What would I do with you?" he whispered, a slither of his certainty returning to his eyes. In a delicate moment of quiet, he came to rest his face against her forehead, puckering his lips in an equally delicate kiss. The corridor may have been empty now, but this was still something Charles James would once have never done in uniform, alone or not.

"Sat in Bath all on ya' Jack Jones, mate," she giggled, taking the jibe in the hope it might lighten his brooding mood. She watched him roll his eyes at her affectionately, evidently not aware of this particular rhyming slang and hoping for a much more romantic response, soppy git that he was.

Stepping back and smiling reassuringly, he was suddenly Bossman again. "Right. Enough nattering, Dawesy." She watched him square himself, (as much as he could while also leaning on a crutch), as though preparing for a patrol. "Time to face the music."

Upon hearing of Charles' father Oliver, one might assume him to be a stern man, given he was an army man his entire life and he raised a son who was also known for his stern Captain demeanour. In reality however the opposite was true, for the most part. Molly had been stunned to find that he had softened in his retirement and was not nearly as frightening as she expected from Charles' stories of his service days. He had a mean sense of humour and loved most to tease his wife, leaving Molly with no questions as to where Charles got his sharp wit from, (or his love of subjecting her to it). He was a tall, slim man despite his age – a silver fox, her Nan had called him. Upon first meeting Molly, he had not be scathing of her, but relentlessly teasing about the whole thing, which Molly much preferred. After all, she was a Cockney. If she couldn't take it, then she could hardly dish it out as she did.

Charles, on the other hand, seemed to find the entire dynamic very difficult to manage. While his relationship with his mother was as typical as any male only child, he seemed to be constantly trapped when it came to his father, insecure that he would never live up to his expectations and hence often butting heads over the simplest disagreements. All of which rooted from the fact that the two were simply so similar.

Therefore, it didn't escape Molly's notice that her husband was visibly surprised and somewhat bemused to see his father waiting for him instead of his mother, accompanied by an exhaustingly energetic Sam, who, at the sight of his father, was instantly beside himself.

"Dad!" he screeched, launching his lithe ten year old frame at his father with zero situational awareness. Molly caught him just before his skull impacted with Charles' middle, as did Oliver from behind. Charles on the other hand was already attempting to get down to his son's level, seeming to lose all awareness for his own pain as he sank to his knees, though his upper body remained rigidly straight, as though bound to a wooden board. He let his son curl his arms around his neck, only just managing to lift his arms enough to loosely loop them around his son's frame. Molly was choked with sudden tears as she watched him burrow his face into his son's jumper, evidently breathing him in. Sam himself was now crying, evidently overwhelmed, a soft, delicate sound that instantly had Charles pulling back to look at him, hands reaching very weakly, with gritted teeth, to stroke his straight, neat brunette hair and heart shaped face with enthusiastic tenderness. The boy usually squirmed under his father's attempts to pin him down for affection but this time he was perfectly still, as though aware of the weight and magnitude of the moment.

"Shh, don't cry, Scamp," he hushed, though his uneven voice told Molly of his own impending tears. "Daddy's back now. I said I'd always try my best to come back to you, didn't I?"

Molly tore her gaze away as a light hand smoothed over her shoulder, Oliver's hand, as he pulled her in for a delayed greeting. "Welcome back," he said in her ear, his tone soft and calm, like Charles. She let her eyes break away from watching him long enough to regard her father-in-law, noting the look of relief and sorrow both in his eyes.

A long moment of further fatherly kisses scattered over Sam's head stretched out before Molly allowed herself to move and help him stand, her nerves tied in knots as he only just managed to keep in cries of protest in front of Sam. Oliver moved to take her place before Charles was even entirely on his feet, causing him to look up in surprise.

"—Dad," Charles said, his voice wavering. "What are you—?"

"I'm here to see my son, home, Charlie boy. What on earth do you think I'm doing?!" Oliver replied, evidently slightly put out by his son's wary look of trepidation. "I know you'd rather your mother—."

"No, Dad, no, it's not—," Charles cut himself off, moving too fast towards the older man and triggering pain through his side. "I'm just… so glad to be home. It doesn't feel… _real_ yet."

"How are you?" Molly heard his father ask then, getting straight down to it. Sam stood at his father's side, not once attempting to interject as he often did when his father had been away. Instead, he remained introspective, clinging to his father's hand, a head leaning against his arm. "I heard it began with a rather fierce blue on green."

Molly moved close enough to Sam to feel the boy's fidgeting.

"They came from nowhere. An ambush of the ambulance," he explained somewhat cryptically in a low voice, not wanting Sam to catch too much. "It was my fault—."

"—Did you attempt to stand your ground? Radio for support?"

"Yes, sir—."

"Did you assure that your man was under threat and fire before moving towards the hostiles yourself? Was the air support really so far out that you had got take such a reckless decision for one man?"

"Yes! Yes, but—."

"No 'buts'," he replied, sounding as though he had it said it a thousand times. Charles seemed to hold his breath, as though expecting fierce scorning to come. Instead however, his father seemed to soften.

"—You also need a shave, Charlie boy," his father interjected, the casual comment seeing be an attempt to hide sudden emotion in his voice, letting his military drilling come to an end with an watery smile. "Are those grass cuttings stuck to your face?".

"Well, I'm not sure what you expect considering the beard growth genetics _you_ left me with," Charles volleyed gently, his shoulders relaxing as his face seemed to contort in an attempt to the tears that were rising in his throat.

Molly could not breathe as she watched the wordless communication that came next between the two men, as each drew the other closer until their foreheads were pressed together urgently. She had never seen such ardent, raw emotion on Charles' face around his father before. He was usually so desperate to only be his 'best self' around the man, so much was his desperation to be good enough to do his father proud.

"Dad—," he tried to say, but his throat sounded closed.

"—I've never been more proud of any soldier… or my own son," Oliver said, "You did Queen and country proud… but most of all, you have never made me more proud. I want you to know that."

Charles seemed to wilt under the praise, letting as heavy a breath as his ribs would allow.

Molly had to look away, feeling as though she was eavesdropping on a fragile, intimate moment that was not hers. Fortunately, Sam was suddenly hugging her middle hard, claiming her attention.

"I missed you, Molly," his soft voice said, sounding genuinely worried she would not know or that she doubted him. She couldn't help but grin, looking down at his sweet little face that was so soft she just wanted to squeeze it. His tears were gone now, just a sniff or two remaining, as she lowered herself down to kiss his head and muffle his hair.

"I missed you right back, Sam Soldier Man," she giggled.

Suddenly, the young boy looked a little apprehensive, as he always did when he was about to ask her questions he shouldn't. "Moll?"

"Yeah?"

Over her shoulder, Charles and Oliver were suddenly back to discussing sport, as though the entire previous relationship-evolving exchange had not occurred at all. She rolled her eyes at them, knowing Charles caught view of her.

"How did Dad get two black eyes?" Sam whispered, evidently knowing he wasn't supposed to ask. "Was it like last time, when a Taliban man shot him? Grandpa said he had broken his ribs. He's not going to be in hospital this time, is he?"

As always with Sam, when he allowed one question to leak they came in rapid succession like machine gun fire. He was a curious and sharp boy and Molly knew that despite all Charles did to protect him from the reality of the world, he was perspective to a lot more than he let on and didn't take to being talked down to. She and Charles had had one or two disagreements over this, as Charles would always see Sam as his baby that needed protecting, but Molly would also remind him that it was precisely feeling lied to, dumbed down and overlooked that fostered her resentment towards her own father. In the end, Molly had told Sam some uncomfortable truths anyway, despite the fact Charles had told her not to, around a year into she and Charles' relationship. Sam had come in from school melancholy and quiet, confiding in her that the older boys, one of whom's family were also military, told him that the story he told about how his Dad hurt his leg was rubbish. He had been devastated by the idea that his Dad had lied to him about why and how he broke his leg, or had to have an operation on his tummy, and Molly had been overcome with sympathy that the poor boy somehow thought that this lie was in any way a reflection on him or his worthiness as a son. So, she'd told him, in terms not sugar-coated but also without any unnecessary details, the actual truth, because he had looked her in the eye and asked for it.

To say Charles had blown his top that night would be an immense understatement. Eventually, after a day of sulking, he gave in and admitted that she had not in fact done anything wrong, aside from making a decision without discussing it with him first, which she did concede. They made a deal with Sam after that, to always tell him the truth as much as they could and he promised to do the same; sweet, earnest soul that he was.

"He has, but he was also hit in the face too," she replied, trying to push back thoughts of sour arguments and Charles slamming doors. "Getting hit in the nose makes your eyes do that," she replied conversationally, attempting to sound nonchalant. "So, we have to be careful with our hugs for a bit, yeah? Both of us." A presence at her side notified her of the men's return to the conversation. She turned her head just in time to catch one of Charles' tiny, almost indistinguishable winks, evidently warmed by the rapport between his wife and son. "You know what a cuddle monster your dad can be."

–x–

"A _party? Oh,_ for _fuck's_ sake."

As predicted, Alison James' idea to have a welcome home surprise gathering had not gone down well with her only son. Molly, having noted Charles' fractious mood since leaving Kenya, was anxious that he would not be able to keep his temper in check in front of his family, if the party was left as a surprise, so she had chosen to tell him moments before they stepped up the steps and into the house. While offering him a caring, wifely arm out of the car, handing him his crutch, she had whispered it, so Sam would not hear. His already stoic expression, wrought with pain and exhaustion, sagged further, his eyes igniting with a rare spark of impatience; his usual steadfast and concrete resolve was waining.

"I mean, _honestly!"_ His whisper was harsh and clipped like a stroppy teenager, but on this occasion she was inclined to agree with him for once. The poor man hadn't even stepped through the door for a night and his mother was creating, unknowingly, the greatest repellent against sleep and relaxation possible: the very two things he truly needed. "You'd think the woman barely knew me!"

"She's just bouncin' off the walls with relief and wants to celebrate, Charlie," she whispered gently, attempting to play devils advocate. She knew what it was like to want to scream and shout that the heavens had finally been kind to you, having felt that way from the moment he came limping into The Royal Mombasa. She was starting to think it was the soul's way of trying to reaffirm that such wonderful turns of events were even real, wanting to scream and shout. "She's basically only just found out her son ain't about to beheaded––."

"––I _know_ ," he replied, curt still but with a slight sigh, as his usual compassionate objective nature returned. "I know," he repeated, but softer this time. "But she knows I am not a man who likes surprises."

Taking their time with the steps, Molly had his arm and squeezed it affectionately, giving him a sympathetic smile. "It's not for you though, is it? It's for her. For them."

Charles rolled his eyes and rumbled under his breath, which Molly had long taken as a sign that she was right. Looking over at her in their last few moments of quiet, he gave her a smile to match hers.

"Molly James. When did you get so _wise_?"

"I've always been, I'll 'ave you know. You jus' didn't want to see it – being so easily threatened by intelligent women an' that."

She was happy to see his nose wrinkle upward, meaning he was trying not to laugh. He looked at her for a long moment, ignoring the fact the door in front of them had opened… until his mother's body all but collided with his and he almost fell. Instantly, his serene smile was gone.

"Ah, _fuck! Jesus!_ Mum, _please_ be careful! _"_ He groaned loudly, trying to be quiet, his voice sounding terse and impatient again.

"Darling, _really!"_ came Oliver's terse protest. _"_ What did I say?! Give the man a chance to even get in the door, for goodness sake!" Charles' father continued to chastise his wife from the doorway, though she was not at all listening, instead babbling out questions and inspecting her son with enthusiastic abandon.

" _Oh, shit,"_ she swore in her wonderfully upper class way. "I'm so sorry! God! Oh, my _boy_ – is it your ribs? Didn't the hospital bind them?! Oh, my god, look at you!" Tears were streaming down her face, replacing marks of what looked like the routes that past tears had taken.

"They don't bind broken ribs anymore, mum. That's Hollywood rubbish. My resident medic says so," he replied weakly, giving Molly a slightly helpless but humorous look. His voice was low and strained with discomfort as he evidently attempted to water down the intensity of the moment with humour.

Alison all but ignored him, seeming almost too overcome to even be able to process he had spoken. "I thought this was _it_ this time – I really did! I _thought_ ––!" He had her hands at his face now, tracing every plane of his angular and temporarily swollen features, a hand curling into his hair and forcing him to bow his head into her shoulder. "I truly didn't think I could be so lucky twice."

Pressing her face, delicately this time, against his curls, kissing his ear, she let herself cry. Molly watched Charles' left hand as he slowly traced up her side and across her back, drawing her close and seeming to give in to her need to hold him. His eyes looked to burn with unshed tears, but he clenched them shut against her shoulder, though Molly heard the unmistakable sound of a man sniffing to hold back his streaming nose.

"It's alright, mum," he managed, looking directly at Molly over her shoulder, the only soul left still stood with them both on the doorstep. She loitered but a few foot away in the doorway, worried that he might stumble. "I'm here now."

What happened next was a blur of false smiles and the repetition of small talk. Charles, to his credit, managed an acceptably realistic look of surprise when he entered the large open plan kitchen to find so many of his closest there, as well as Georgie's family. He stood patiently as each of his family members hurried to embrace him tentatively, and Molly was pleased to see him begin to soften into each one, despite the pain that kept his posture rigid. He would eventually shed himself of his 'Bossman' persona, but from experience Molly knew it would take him a good while, maybe a week or two. After all, he had spent the last few months under pressure in a very unpleasant and distressing environment where he had to be alert and in charge every moment, even in his sleep, and the last week of that being held hostage and having to try and protect Georgie. Such pressure left a phantom weight on one's shoulders, she knew that from her own, albeit only slightly similar, experience, even once one came back home to 'normal'. It could be hard to realise for weeks or months sometimes that the weight was in fact no longer there, but a figment of your mind.

Charles' eyes shined in the low light as he made his way slowly from one person to the next, evidently beginning to feel a little floored by the number of people who wanted to show their support for him. Molly saw it and had tightened her grip on his hand, before she had to let it drop again and he moved in for another very stiff hug, leaving a considerable gap between his body and theirs, a world away from how relaxed Charles James could be.

"Man of the hour, eh, Charlie boy?"

Molly rolled her eyes at the sound of an all too familiar obnoxious voice, barrelling over to them with his ever inappropriate smirk on his face.

"Elvis," she greeted flatly, though mostly out of exhaustion rather than distaste.

"How are we, Molls? It's been so long," he drawled lazily, his sarcastic tone making her roll her eyes light heartedly.

"It's ain't even been a few hours, mate, and here I was thinking I was saved from havin' to look at your ugly mug for at least a week." She smiled cheekily as she said it, her first genuine smile while in public for what felt like an age. As Elvis released Charlie from a very careful but brotherly embrace, he surprised them both by pulling Molly into an equally enthusiastic and tight hug, knocking her focus a little. She had been so centred in looking out for Charles, watching him like a hawk for any sign of medical emergency, that such a sudden move mentally knocked her sideways. One look at Charles over his shoulder and she could see he too was surprised, though pleasantly so. His big brown eyes, despite their bloodshot, shadowed state, wrinkled at the outer edges, telling her without words of his appeasement.

That was why she let the embrace go on, despite the fact it spread a flush of anxiety and intense compulsion to flee the moment Elvis' unfamiliar hands touched her. If there was anything she had expected after being sexually assaulted, it was not that any male touch she did not know would set off jarring sirens in her mind. The most bizarre and frightening part was that all the outside world could see, even if they looked close enough, was the sudden rigid nature of her spine and the slight flush to her palms. They would have no idea of the panicked racing of her pulse and the way it made her feel sick with fear.

Before she could look to see if Charles had noticed, a presence behind Molly made a brand new expression fall over his face, leaving him looking as though he was now balancing on an emotional razor's edge. His face smoothed over, a familiar softness, a blankness, that only appeared in his usually very contoured and lined face when he was about to cry.

"Ada?!"

The deep red curls of his cousin came into view as Molly whirled around to see what had him so _sincerely_ surprised. Molly had come to look up to her, in her serene calmness, (much like Charles'), and her iron-clad independence. She had never married, as of yet, but much like a younger Molly Dawes had once been, she seemed entirely untouched by a need for it. Her power came entirely from within, which Molly all but wished her own did. As much as she wanted to be able to say that she did not need anyone to be secure and 'together', she had known the moment times were hard that she was inevitably and irrevocably entwined with Charles until her dying day, feminist or not.

As a result, a part of her had always looked up to Charles' treasured cousin from the moment they met; the same part of her that would always mistrust the men around her – especially more now.

Charles was suddenly smothered into the arms of his tall, willowy cousin, her ivory arms looped around her head and back in a very maternal kind of hug. Molly stepped back and watched with a sudden lump the size of West Ham in her throat.

"Are you okay? You're okay, aren't you?" she wheezed, dashing stray tears frantically from her lower lashes. Pulling back from the passionate hug, Ada had his face in her hands, looking up and over his features frantically as his mother had done not too long before.

"I will be," he replied in an unexpectedly breathy tone, instantly clearing his throat. "Just a few bruises really."

Ada burst into an unexpected laugh, affectionately pressing a kiss to his cheek. "'A _few bruises'_ he says!" Turning to Molly unexpectedly, she flashed her winning smile and pulled her for a hug. "What is he like, Molly! Always a bloody hero!" After a beat, she gasped. "Oh, god, sit, sit! You must be exhausted."

Charles' features seemed to falter and crumple under the weight of sudden tearful smile as he took her seat at the kitchen island gratefully. He often looked at them both that way when she and Ada were getting along, as though he was seeing Molly for the first time.

Molly let out a cackle in response to Ada's all to familiar assessment of her husband. "Tell me abou' it!"

Beside her, now closer to her height now he sat on the raised stool, Charles scoffed, only to grimace immediately afterward.

"Well, I'm glad I came home just to be subjected to such chastisement!" he grumbled lightheartedly, though he couldn't seem to keep the smile from his face. His hand curved around her own subtly between their bodies, refusing to let her step away.

"Don't you _ever_ do that to us again, Charlie, _bloody hell!"_ Ada breathed, several strangling tears making last minute tracks down her cheeks and over her chin.

Charles was uncharacteristically quiet, blinking frantically to keep his own tears back, a near-disbelieving smile on his bruised and swollen face that made the discolouration almost fade into complete insignificance.

"I wish I could make such a promise," he said unsteadily, inclining his head until he met Molly's eye, sharing a gentle, private look with Molly. "Lord knows I would if I could."

Ada's big brown eyes, so unusual for someone with hair of her colour, mirrored Charles' own, smiling down at Molly in a way that made her feel as though she could see straight through her and into her thoughts.

"How have you been managing, Molly?" she asked, her voice low and sharp in its poignancy, because both Molly and Charles knew she herself was carrying around her own issues.

"Better," Molly managed, swallowing hard and managing a convincing smile. Resting her chin on her shoulder, she stole another look at her husband as he played with her fingers, interlocking them with his own in agonisingly delicate movements between their bodies. "Now that I'm not having a Julius Caesar every minute my eyes are open!"

Charles squeezed her hand hard at that comment, his own private way of saying he was sorry. She was joking though, of course, so she stuck her tongue out at him to make sure he knew. In front of her, Ada openly laughed. She had one of those laughs that was so very infectious, leaving all three of them grinning as Charles tried his hardest not to laugh. It felt so good to see him smile, even if it's usual beauty was marred by all the bruising.

"Do you guys want a drink?"Ada asked, smoothing her hand over his shoulders as she passed, an affectionate move that made Molly smile. She was surprised to see Charles decline, smiling gratefully as she moved away to speak to Elvis. Next to arrive at Molly's side was a soft but weary looking Georgie, who was being shadowed by her mother. At the sight of her Charles blinked and grinned in surprise, turning to Molly and twisting his mouth in a amused smirk.

"You little sneaks!" he cried, evidently wanting to laugh. "I saw you two say goodbye and _everything!_ "

Charles lasted the best part of an hour before he disappeared, sinking into the shadows of the garden despite the icy November temperatures and only just managing to sink himself into the old wooden bench swing. His father had tried numerous times to 'accidentally' damage the thing in the name of saving his lawn, but both Charles and Alison had proceeded to stage a sit-in on the swing for an entire day in protest. For Charles, it was his favourite reading spot, a little sun trap in the afternoon and a sheltered hidden sanctuary come nights where he elected not to sleep. He knew it would take very little time before either his mother or Molly would find him here, but he didn't mind. He would not be rushed. Being a man who had narrowly escaped death yet again _surely_ offered him some allowances to be antisocial?

As though summoning her through some form of material psychic ability, his favourite cousin appeared through the archway of fairy lights that lead to the hidden garden sanctuary, two glasses of wine in hand.

"I knew you would be hiding down here," Adriana said, her voice surprisingly soft and lacking her usual assertiveness. As she lowered herself down to the padded bench swing, Charles cringed at the slight jarring of his skeleton.

"Oh, fuck! Sorry! Good thing I was instructed to bring you these." She gentle pressed pills into his palm.

Charles looked at them in surprise and felt a soft, sentimental smile rose at the corners of his mouth. It was such a tiny gesture and yet it had him feeling dwarfed by the level of selfless consideration his wife seemed to be capable of at all times, even in her own darkest hour.

"She's so good to me," he whispered, almost to himself, slowly lifting the painkillers to his mouth. He looked at the glass of wine, contemplating the fact he was not supposed to drink on strong co-codamol, but almost instantly abandoned his hesitancy, realising it was either that or he gulped them down dry.

"Yes," Adriana agreed quietly, her hand having sought out his knee to poke it affectionately. "She sees heaven and earth in you."

Leaning his head against the back of the bench, he gazed at the canopy and listened to the sound of the distant city, doing all of which simply in avoidance of his cousin's gaze. "I do wonder what I did to deserve such admiration," he smiled candidly, "And—." He cut himself off, wading for the right words.

"And?"

He had been about to say, 'and how I can prove worthy of her', but realised if he said such a thing, then his mother would ask what he had meant by it… "Doesn't matter," he sighed, laying his head on its side so he could look at her. It was only then that he noticed how her chin was wobbling, her eyes shining again with the tell tale sign of tears even in the low light of the outdoor light. "What?" Very slowly trying to sit up, he bit back a groan as he shuffled close to her. "Don't cry anymore, please. I'm _alright,_ honestly."

"I know," she sniffed, straight strands of her red hair falling down from the crocodile clip that had been keeping her long straight hair from her face. She nodded vigorously, hurriedly attempting to wipe her eyes. "I know _you_ are."

At the unexpected emphasis, Charles' ears pricked. He frowned at her and went to question her, only for her to seem to struggle all the more with her composure. "What—?"

"Molly told me what happened, to _her,_ out there… and I came out here just trying to… _process_ it."

Charles' stomach dropped as he realised the gravity of the topic he was now going to have to discuss. As selfish as it sounded, but he had been hoping they could keep it to themselves for a while, simply to give both he and Molly a time to digest it.

"What… did she tell you?" he asked lowly, trying to swallow but finding he couldn't. Daring to look into her eyes, his jaw clenched with nerves. "Everything?"

"Enough," Adriana replied, trying to smile to reassure him as she always did. "The fucking bastard. The world really is filled with monsters." She looked across at her cousin, battered and bruised, and realised just how much more pained he appeared when discussing this topic than he had but a moment before. The depths of his brown eyes, near-replicas of his mother's, were round and glassy in the way they always were when he was trying to convince himself not to show his true feelings. She knew his expressions almost better than her own, having watched them grow and evolve with the strong planes of his face since he was old enough to learn what it was to be brave and try not to show them. She just _wished_ that he would realise that _even_ when one was known for being brave, it didn't mean that one couldn't let it show. In that, Charles and Molly certainly could learn a thing two from one another. "I… caught her wincing in pain, as she sat down. So I asked her if there was anything I could do, just, well, because… and she just came out with it, since no one else was around…"

Charles grimaced at the mental image, a tiny flinching movement of his facial features that was so quick and yet so very grave. "She told me she wasn't in pain," he whispered helplessly, scratching at his beard and twisting his smooth wedding ring around and around his finger to give his restless, rigid hands something to do.

"Your mum always says it's the oldest rule in her book, right?" she continued, attempting to sound wistful and nonchalant to cover the remainder of her tears. "If someone's really in need of help, a simple 'are you alright?' is all one ever need ask. But then, that you know, hm? It's always worked a charm on you."

Charles barely registered the gentle poke at his characters, his gut was swimming with the rearing head of self doubt at the realisation Molly had not been honest with him. He and Molly had _always_ honest with each other, ever since that fateful day on which his first omission of truth with her had almost split them apart before they had even _been_.

Adriana sighed in quiet surprise, her tears diminishing somewhat as she tried to give him a comforting expression that resembled a smile. "She just doesn't want to worry you." Leaning into him so he could no longer avoid her eye, Ada reached to push a stray curl back from where it brushed over his eyebrow, her eyes wide in maternal chastisement as she repressed a smirk. "I'm not sure you can begrudge her that considering _your_ record for collecting and harbouring your own worries like that magpie with your mum's diamond rings, Charles."

He almost laughed, because he so often liked to rather egotistically think so little of the world knew him as he truly was, when, in reality, his cousin had him almost entirely memorised and predicted more often than not. Taking a moment in the shadows to look at her, he was thoughtful at the sight of her. She was backlit by warm white fairy lights that she was prized for decorating their garden with because they were never, under any circumstances, faulty, dim or, god forbid, off. His mother and Ada had meticulously curled a set around the now alarmingly large evergreen archway every single year or so since the year his mother had picked out her new design for the garden. He was fifteen and she had made him carry, lift, and dig for punishment for snapping at her one too many times. He had hated it for all of the first hour, but then realised that he liked the simple yet satisfying tasks that landscaping involved… and the next year, he ended up assisting without duress.

Charles was overcome with warmth and sorrow in equal measure, looking at her now in his family home; a place he never thought, days before, he would ever see again. He felt strangely blessed also to see his family care so much about the woman who, arguably, meant even _more_ to him in his current day to day than they even did, though the margin was minuscule.

While away on holiday in Cornwall with the family, he and Molly had decided to announce their secret engagement and it was then his father had warned him his his mother would struggle, and how aggressively she would continue to insist that she did not. He _knew,_ as a father himself, how traumatic even the _idea_ of Sam growing up and into a person who actively _wanted_ to spend less time with him felt if he dwell on it too long. He knew as an only child how much his mother must miss him and realised soon into his second engagement how easy it would be for a bitter person to resent one's new daughter in law for taking love and attention in a new direction. Therefore, he had worried for a while about his mother, having neglected her far too much in his younger years the first time he married: checking up on her periodically throughout he and Molly's extended honeymoon – within reason – and making sure to send over photos whenever he could. The last thing he had wanted was for any of his mother's insecurity to end up being protected onto Molly, who had continued to bend over backward and then some to continuously prove she could fit into their family.

He had worried for nothing, of course, because her 'magnetism' had gotten all the James family hooked long before he even proposed, so they told him later. Now, as he watched his cousin's eyes attempt to smile at him while they were glazed over with an empathy and sorrow so deep rooted that she could not help but continue to shed a tear or two, he did wonder what on earth he had ever wasted his energy for.

He was not only blessed with a wonderfully compassionate wife, but with an utterly devoted empathy in his family, too.

–x–

Perhaps Molly had been naive to think that she could ignore the inevitable forever, or perhaps she had just been hiding behind a façade. Either way, it disintegrated the moment she began to feel the burn and chafe more acutely than before. It had pained her since Captain Lawrence had forced himself on her, though less so with each passing day. However with the long flight home in a very uncomfortable military transit liner and a further car journey, Molly had suddenly been less and less able to ignore it, a burning reminder of what _He_ had done. The most tragic of self-perpetuating cycles, Molly was beginning to think that the more she focused on the pain, the worse it became; although, she was also rather sure it might all be to do with how bloody _exhausted_ she was. Charles was understandably distracted and had not seemed to notice; his parents' large kitchen slowly filtering with all those who loved him, all so desperate to tell him how grateful they were that he was alive. That being said, even if he had not been distracted, Molly knew she would _not_ have chosen this moment to confine in him about how awful she was feeling. She wanted to get back to _their_ home, was all, to try to get _on_ with things, not dwell on horrors of the past she could not change.

Her patience disappointed altogether when she was all but made to mediate Georgie and Elvis as they began arguing in the hallway.

"Have some _fucking respect_ for why we're here, both of you!" She did not realise at first that was was almost shouting and thanked god for the music playing in the kitchen when she did. "You and Charlie nearly fucking _died_ and here you two are bleedin' at each other like old mares as though you ain't just been given the greatest fucking luck! Now, either shag either other or don't, but _please_ stop draggin' us all into your misery."

The two had been stunned into silence as she rounded them and made her way upstairs to the first floor landing. She gave a sigh of relief as the solace of the dark and silent empty upper floors beckoned. Her ploy to slip upstairs unnoticed almost went to plan… had it not been for Adriana, who suddenly appeared on her heels.

She had turned to give her a tired false smile and ask what she needed, only to be confronted with an expression on her cousin-in-law's face that pulled her up short immediately.

"Are _you_ okay?"

This was all she had asked and as a woman of many words, the sheer foresight and delicacy of her simple question had Molly's resolve almost demolished. It was a question she had been dreading and the way Ada asked had Molly in pieces. She felt herself shake as she desperately attempted to lie, to let the words that she had mentally rehearsed all the way home slip from her mouth as easily as lies had throughout her teenage years… and yet, they would not. Ada's eyes, after all, were _Charles'_ eyes… and she could not lie under their intensity.

"Yeah," she had managed to croak out, instantly backing further into the shadows of the corridor at the bottom of the beautiful staircase, her now-bootless feet cold on the expensive polished floor.

But Ada had seen through her just as her son had always done… or perhaps Molly deep down wanted someone to break her. She could not be sure. The red-head automatically gave her a sardonic smile, raising her eyebrows in what looked to be cynical disbelief and Molly's heart immediately sank. She hadn't been believed.

"Are you sure?" she probed, her chocolate eyes pleading for honestly. "I just couldn't help but notice that you certainly don't look to be wearing the expression of a woman who's husband has just been rescued from war…"

Her fingers squeezing tight around the smooth oak bannister, Molly heard herself give off a nervous laugh, a breathless exhale that sounded alien even to her own ears. Ada's suspicions were founded in logic, leaving Molly's mind entirely blank as she opened her mouth to expel a throw-away excuse. After all, she _should_ be bouncing off the walls this evening; her husband had been through unimaginable torment and survived, back from the brink yet again. The Old Molly – (she could think of no other manner with which to put a name to the version of herself that seemed long gone) – would have been downstairs with their nearest and dearest getting a little too merry, spilling the odd drink over herself, perching conveniently by the nibbles table and then calling into bed by ten o'clock. Instead, she was stoic and wooden and lost in her own mind, barely able to feel anything past the slight tingle of the glasses of wine she had swallowed down almost without tasting them. Subsequently her stomach, lined with very little, swam slightly as anxiety curdled inside her like week old milk. The Old Molly, buried somewhere inside her beneath tonnes of rubble, was sick with it, unable to do anything other than watch as The New Molly, in her attempts to stay numb and hidden, tore down any and all olive branches offered out to her.

"I'm _fine_." She tried to ignore the way her constricted throat made her voice a mere squeak. She attempted to take a deep breath, but the tears building in her throats suddenly felt like a golf ball. "Just… cream-crackered."

"Forgive me, Molly, but…you don't look fine," Ada replied, her smile gentle and wobbly as she too seemed to be being threatened by tears. "You don't have to tell me… but I'd bloody rather you did because I can see it's always making Charles miserable." She caught herself, seemingly to realise that she had come off abrupt but whatever it was Molly's expression was unknowingly doing. "Sorry - I just… I love you, Molly and I want to help, if I can. A problem shared is a problem halved, no?"

"I…" One look at her friend and Molly could see she was certain there was something she was keeping from her. "Please. I ain't sure I'm ready…"

Even as she said it however, she could feel her mind willing her to give in.

Slowly, Ada made her way up the next flight of stairs, knowing Molly would likely follow if she was allowed a moment to breathe. Sure enough, as she lowered herself into the windowsill seat at the first little landing break in the staircase, Molly sat down next to her. She took a deep breath, as though preparing herself to talk a great leap.

"Suppose if I wanted until I was ready to do anything in life, I'd still be at that bloody nail bar," she said, trying to smile she she made up her mind. Her mouth was so dry she couldn't swallow. "So here goes. Try to keep up."


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Hey y'all,_

 _Here's the second half of the chapter that's been sat in my documents for ages. I've been working on the next one, so I wanted to get this out the way. Hope you all have lovely Christmases._

 _Stars Walk Backward_

 _(Inspiration via my blog 100% will always be greeted with MASSIVE ENTHUSIASM, so if you're ever around and want to discuss these two, my story or just CJ's hair... hit me up goodgirlwhoshopeful xx)_

 _P.S. If you're really nice to me and really lucky... you might get another chapter ASAP :') PLEASE REVIEW x_

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 **XIV**

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After revealing every last detail to Adriana that she could manage, the two had hugged for a very long time. The word 'rape' had still not left her mouth, but Molly was she simply proud that she even managed to tell another soul anything about what happened. As Adriana has pointed out she had already managed two of the most difficult parts of communication post-trauma, first in telling the Army what happened and then in telling Charles.

"I still ain't sure which was worse," she whispered, after she'd managed to stop sniffing and spluttering ugly tears. Adriana, ever as prepared as her military cousin, seemed to continue to pull out tissues from thin air. "The fact he now looks at me like I'm made of glass or the fact that it's made me so shit-scared." She felt her facial muscles contort again as another wave of tears seemed imminent. "All I want is to feel… _level_ again."

Ada seemed to almost laugh, looking at her as though she had said something she had heard a thousand times before. "Funny; I'm pretty sure Charles will be thinking the exact same thing."

The two were suddenly distracted by the sight of Charles through the window beside them, slinking out into the garden, and laughed.

"Poor sulky sod hates parties!" Molly giggled.

" _Unless_ there's performing or karaoke involved," Ada corrected. "Then he's a pima donna practically gagging to put on a feather bower."

Cracking up, they laughed at his expense, both relieved to be momentarily distracted by the lightness of humour. He didn't notice them watching him as he moved slowly to his hiding place at the garden swing. As she watched his pained movements, Molly sighed, melancholy.

"I best go check on the grumpy git," Ada declared pragmatically, slapping her hands on his thighs. "Shall I send him up?"

Molly smiled, though the expression was brittle. "He looks shattered, so if you can managed to sneak him past the guests that are left, then 'course. I'm sure he'll be grateful. I might gonna have to go and have a shower now. I feel mingin', even though it's only been twelve hours since I last had one."

She passed over some painkillers from her pocket, informing Ada to make sure he took him, because moving quietly up the next flight of stairs to Charles' childhood bedroom. The moment she shut the door behind her, exhaustion seemed to take over as all thoughts of a shower vanished. Kicking off her boots, combats and socks, she battled with her bra and eventually managed to wriggle out of it and took a long moment to sigh at the wonderful feeling of freedom that followed, only to groan as she realised she had left her Bergen with her spare clothes downstairs. Not up to facing anyone with a face still blotched and swollen from crying, she opted for the easiest option. Flexing her shoulders, she didn't allow herself to glance down at her nakedness at all before she moved the same familiar steps to Charles' t-shirt drawer, pulling out one at random and heaving it over her head to hide her own body from herself. Only then did she strip off her underpants and pull on on a pair of his boxers, basking in being entirely surrounded by the subtle scent of him. It was most likely that he did have clothes of hers in this room somewhere, but she preferred to wear his anyway, especially now. As she applied some deodorant from his drawer and slowly and meticulously folded up her dirty clothes, she felt her eyes water a little at the sudden realisation that was home again. This felt like home.

Curling up on his side of the bed, she lit her favourite candle and lay in the grey darkness, listening to the muted conversations of those guests who remained in the kitchen. It can't have been later than half past six in the evening, but most guests had only stayed long enough to share a drink and a hug with them both, realising after all that he was injured and most likely wanted peace. Now, after an hour or two since they arrived, only Charles' parents long standing friends and Georgie and her family were left, since they were guests for the night.

Molly's own family had been invited, Alison insisted, but could not attend as they couldn't get a babysitter for the littlest of the bleeders, although Molly knew that that really meant Dave had spent their babysitting change on beer. Alison had told her this news with a look that implied she should feel sad, but Molly was surprised to find she didn't. While she _did_ of course miss her Mum and her Nan, she always felt slightly on edge when they and Charles' family were together; the age-old anxiety that they would show her up still not having really gone again. That… and she knew she would need as long as possible to figure out just how she was going to tell them when they asked why she wasn't going to be working for a while.

As her eyes adjusted to the shadows, she could make out the photographs by Charles' side of the bed. One was a photo she had seen many times of Sam wearing his trademark cheesy grin and his costume mini army uniform, taken a few years ago when Molly had been just getting to know him. Another was one of Charles' favourites from their wedding. Molly was sat on a bench in the gardens of the hotel where they had their reception, sat beneath a cast iron arch that had been decorated with the most magnificent lights and flowers. Charles' head was in her lap and she was grinning down at him as he looked at the camera, laughing, the back of her hand pressed against his lips as they had entwined their fingers. It had been taken towards the end of the evening when the buttons on Charles' uniform had been undone to reveal the collar of his perfectly white t-shirt beneath, his white ceremonial gloves long gone and Molly's curled up-do had been abandoned. The glare of the flash made his wedding ring shine like a beacon of hope in the frame.

They looked throughly merry and sickeningly happy and it made her chest ache a little to look at. She didn't feel as though she could compare with the woman in the photograph now.

It was then that she noticed there was now a third photograph, one she didn't recognise, unframed and leant against the one beside it with slightly curled corners. Sitting up, she reached over to look at it, straining toward the candle to make out the faces better. She quickly realised it was of the entirety of Two Section as it was, minus Smurf of course, taken on a reunion night out to the local pub in Aldershot just after Molly had returned from her first six week tour training medics. They had been stood at the bar with Fingers taking foolish selfies when he had asked the landlady to take their group photograph. Molly remembered how hyper-aware she had been that evening, not only of every single move she made but also every single move or even breath Charles took. She had been so conscious of the secret that had bloomed between the two of them just months before prior to her going away, when they had finally ended their 'waiting out' and had the most wonderful few days in Bath. Locked away from the rest of the world in Alison and Oliver's empty and grand Royal Crescent house, it had been so easy for Molly to lose herself in her daydreams. For a short while, she had been able to forget about London and the chaos that awaited her back there… or the boys and the secrets that the date had cemented from them. She had been shocked by how _easy_ it had been too, to hide it all from everyone, to keep Charles as her secret, precious love in an invisible locket around her neck.

Like all things in life, it was easy… until it wasn't.

Smurf's shocking death knocked her back so many paces that she seemed to lose her way. She then looked in the mirror and only saw two versions of herself: a war-weary soldier still in battle gear with Smurf's blood on her hands… and the blonde, utterly desperate Molly from the nail bar who ran from anything that made her feel at all.

Inevitably, she morphed, degenerated, crumbled, back into the latter… and run she did; the only difference being that, for the first time in her life, instead of running away from conflict, she ran _into_ it. She had not been able to face Charles for weeks after the funeral; the guilt of their collective responsibility for the chain over events that put her dear friend in a coffin had been too much to bear. She had known he felt it too by the way he could barely keep back his tears as they all said their goodbyes. As Candy had confronted him outside the church, she had watched from a slight distance as he barely held onto the slither of composure he had left. His facial muscles strained and plump bottom lip trembled, frown lines he was usually so famous for becoming unusually smooth. It was the first time she ever saw Charles James cry and it had sent her into a flurry of anxiety similar to that of a confused and sorrowful child watching their caregiver lose their invincibility mask for the very first time.

She had not planned to see him at all once she decided she was going to run away to train Afghan medics because she knew that seeing him again, particularly out of uniform, would make her want to change her mind. He cornered her in the end, pulling a string or two to find out what day she was to be deployed and then calling her with a soft plea to meet him for a coffee before she went. She had almost refused… but she never had been able to resist his soft voice.

It was an awfully rigid meeting, as they were both drowning in the subtext of their conversation, all too aware of all the things neither of them could find the words to say aloud because their guilt drowned it all out.

 _Don't let this be the end._

 _I didn't mean it to happen like this._

 _It doesn't mean I don't love you._

 _You're more urgent to me than my coffee in the morning or the air I breathe... but you need this. Go and be brilliant._

 _Please don't take my going as leaving you… because you'll be with me every time I close my eyes._

 _Ditto._

He had written to her subsequently once she was a few weeks into her new platoon, giving her space to breathe, for which she was grateful. By the time his letter came, the unintelligible panic and sorrow she had felt so acutely while stuck back in Britain felt like a memory of a dream, faded but by no means less real at the time. She had lapped up every word until her cheeks ached by how much she grinned, hiding in her pit. While neither dare repeat the words that they had so easily breathed and sighed in the complete seclusion of Royal Crescent a few months before, she had been relieved simply to have not been forgotten. Every man she had ever fallen for had thrown her away, after all, once they realised she didn't make things easy. It was a breath of fresh air that he was still trying.

Therefore, it had very much felt like the elephant in the room had been entirely weighed on her shoulders when she arrived at the reunion knowing he would be there. Her eyes would catch his and she would find she would flush hot all over, but thankfully not blush a shade of peachy pink anymore, as her body didn't betray her unless he spoke to her. When he did, she pushed the response back with all her might… but, of course, Brains still noticed.

An hour and one pint in, Charles had bid them goodbye, having stayed as long as he reasonably could as their superior. Molly had been on her way out of the ladies toilet and he had caught her alone, just momentarily, all talkative eyes and very few words. He'd caught her waist before she could leave the seclusion of the customer toilet corridor, seemingly unable to help himself as his hand instantly dropped as he caught himself. She hadn't cared. If anything it had thrilled her, that he had wanted to touch her so urgently and was willing to risk publicly being caught to do it.

 _"I'm so relieved to have you back,"_ he had said, seeming uncharacteristically lost for words. _"How was it?"_

Molly had laughed then, an unceremonious snort. _"It was a_ war zone _, Boss. Hardly any different than when you last left it."_ He had given her a chastising look for deliberately taking his earnest question as a joke, but his mouth had curled into the small smirk it always did when he was trying not to show her he was amused.

 _"I preferred when you didn't call me Boss."_

His confession was so small she had wondered at first if he had meant to say it aloud. His eyes looked conflicted suddenly, as he was evidently struggling with his vocabulary.

 _"Me too,"_ she had whispered back, taking him by surprise. Despite the fact she had been replying to his letters, he had evidently been expecting her to push him away again.

 _"I thought—,"_ he breathed, breaking off to bark out a single chuckle of nervous relief. _"I really thought that perhaps you… had decided against it_ —me _._ " It that moment, he seemed dwarfed by his insecurities before her, the likes of which she had only had a glimpse of once before, when he had misconstrued her entanglement with Smurf while on R&R and lashed out at her. Suddenly, he did not seem all that grand and mighty as he once had, no longer balanced on the pedestal she had once placed him on. Just like that, she realised that he had been right, the 'kinship' jibberish was true. They were more alike than they knew.

" _I had it in my nut that it would stop me feeling so guilty,_ " she confessed, feeling emboldened and sure of her decision after seeing the doubt in his eyes. " _But it don't stop. All bein' away from you did was make me have a face like a slapped arse and be shit to be around… and Smurf wouldn't want that."_

The smile he'd given in reply was worth the wait.

By the time she had knocked on his parents door unannounced a few weeks later, they had been texting incessantly. To this day, she wasn't sure how she lasted so long without running to him. Looking back, Charles would say she had been testing his boundaries, seeing how far she could push him in the expectation he would give up and run a mile. 'Evidently your subconscious had never dealt with a Captain of Her Majesty's Army before', he had said, earning him a pinch at the waist.

Studying the photo between her fingers, seemingly so insignificant next to the magnitude of such a thing as a wedding photograph, she suddenly felt unexpectedly hot with the sudden emotion caught in her throat, because it wasn't significant at all. In fact, it was a tiny moment she had all but forgotten.

She and Charles were stood furthest right in the photograph, appearing almost separate from the boys, who were all posing obnoxiously. They stood looking considerably less relaxed as the others. Therefore, the significance of the two no doubt went relatively unnoticed to a stranger who may come across the image. If they were to cast a second glance however, the photograph's loud subtext would begin to show. While the two weren't close enough to be pressed together, there was, undeniably, the slight capture of Captain Charles James' hand firmly clasping high on the curve of his young medic's waist.

She suddenly recalled the moment with unexpected clarity. She had been busy negotiating her self conscious thoughts, all to aware of his body being just out of reach. She had not even dared turn to meet his eye, for fear that suddenly she would reveal a blazing scarlet letter on her forehead or that how much she wanted to touch him would lead her body astray. Then, as the landlady had asked them to squash a little to fit into the frame, she felt his hand, as warm and gentle as the last time they had touched her goodbye, lightly pull at her waist to bring her closer. Instantly, her eyes had snapped to his, unable to keep from firing silent questions at him.

He, of course, had had nothing but certainty in his.

"Brains sent it to me." Charles' voice made her head snap up and her breath catch in her throat. Instantly, she made a noise of surprise as her tired brain was lagging to assure her nerves that the voice was familiar. She was not in danger. Her heart hammered in her chest all the same.

"Shitting hell!"

"Sorry—I'm sorry! Honestly, I need to stop doing that—."

Molly shook her head instantly, trying to calm her heart. "Gordon Bennett, my nerves are bad."

"Understandably." Slowly, Charles made his way to the bed and managed to sit down on it despite it's height, thanks to his long legs. His gaze was weary. "As are mine."

Looking across at him as he gently reached over to take hold of her hand that gripped the photograph, smoothing his thumb over and over her skin. She looked at him, all beautiful curls beginning to grow past their regulation maximum length and striking short beard, and suddenly couldn't help but laugh. It was a nervous sound, perhaps, but it almost instantly morphed into near hysterics. "What a bleedin' pair we make!" she cried, wiping her eyes to rid herself of a tear or two of laughter. Charles' bemusement too transformed to hilarity as he too seemed to suddenly realise the bizarrely amusing side of that a mess they must have looked. He then proceeded to gasp and groan at the unexpected strain on his cracked ribs.

"More alike than we know," he murmured, harking back to a time long forgotten, a hint of a smile on his face despite the swelling. He took the photo between his fingers and his smile widened. "This is the first time we touched in front of them," he said, wistfully. "And they barely even noticed."

"Well, I ain't surprised. The morons all thought I was bleedin' soft on Smurf for long enough! Evidently, they are blind as me grandad at the races." Slowly, Molly leaned over and turned on the bedside light, bathing his face in a warm yellow light before rising to help him undress without him even having to ask. He only just managed not to laugh.

"I'm very fortunate that if transpired you weren't – soft on Smurf, I mean."

She simpered almost shyly at his gentle appraisal as she went about her task.

"Can you lift your arms?" she asked, softly, pulling his shirt over his head as he heaved in breath after breath through the pain of stretching upward. Thankfully though, it seemed to have lessened considering the pain he had been in prior to taking his latest bout of pain relief. He watched her intently as she moved pragmatically and efficiently around him, thrown back suddenly to their first tour when he had watched her move around the medical tent, which triggered quite a stir in the back of his mind. He had been intrigued and enthralled watching her work back then and he hadn\t even been sure why. He knew that she had felt it but the way she deliberately avoided his gaze at all costs, just as she was doing now.

"You okay?" he asked, attempting evidently to remain nonchalant as she went to strip him of his trousers. This time, he batted her hands away and began the task himself, deciding that the pain relief took the edge off just enough for him to be able to reach down without being in complete agony. He was desperate to take back at least a little of his dignity as he felt utterly useless and, as much as he felt rotten to even think it, emasculated by her having to undress him so. She may be a medic, but he was her husband, not her child. He loved feeling cared for, but hated feeling dependant. Perhaps he was a proud fool, but even so, he was not sure he could stand it anymore. He had been there before after his leg had been shattered and he had had to rely on taxis and his parents to drive him around. The last thing he wanted was to relive such shame again with Molly. It had made him into a bitter individual, grumpy and sour-faced.

"Alright," she replied as she settled back on the bed and attempted to look as though she was _not_ watching over him as he went about his task. It almost spiked a sudden feeling of impatience in him… until he turned and saw her face. She was trying her best to smile, but something about her expression was stiff. She turned off the light on his side of the bed, her hair tickling his face as she moved, before curling on her side, her knees practically tucked under her chin, beneath the duvet. It was an insular position and left Charles with little option but to simply lay flat on his back beside her, unable to curl around her even if he had been physically lucid enough to manage it.

"What is it?"

"What's what?" she echoed, feigning the most unconvincing of nonchalant tones. In the darkness, he could make out virtually nothing of her form as he his eyes tried their best to adjust to the sudden dark. It frustrated him that he couldn't see her face, because they both knew he would be the undisputed winner at whatever argument was brewing if he could. In the dark, without the giveaway of her round and earnest green eyes, it was the only time she could lie to him.

"You know 'what', Dawesy," he replied, not one for mincing his words, though he made sure to keep his tone as dulcet as he could manage. "Ads told me you are hurt. Why didn't you tell me you were in pain?"

Her exasperated sigh rushed through the dark between them. "It just comes and goes, that's all, Charlie. It's _expected_ until it heals." He could tell by her clipped tone she did not want to discuss it. "There's naffink you can do neither, so I didn't see the point."

Straining against the overwhelming urge to rise to her obvious attempts to cause an argument as a distraction, Charles took a breath before replying, only just managing not to laugh at how easily his wife fell into the same old habits when she was frightened. " _Everything_ that might cause you harm is of concern to me."

He could almost _hear_ the aggression with which she rolled her eyes through the dark. "Charles… Can't we jus' chat about this tomorrow? I'm crackered."

"Of course," he conceded automatically, "as long as we do, though, because we both _know_ this has a lot more to do with your bloody post-action psychologist appointment, hm?"

This time, the grunt she made was more like a childish groan of mock terror as she seemed to burrow her face into the gap between their pillows. "'ow do you bloody do that?! I turned the light of and ya' still read my bleedin' mind!"

Turning his head without too much flex to his neck, Charles' lips blindly found the side of her face as he tried to minimise the smile they had curled into. "It's a gift. Your husband isn't just any old Rupert – didn't you know that by now?"


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Hey y'all,_

 _Here's the next chapter I've been working on. It's a pretty heavy one, so trigger warning; discussions referencing rape happen here. I don't make any claims to be a psychologist, but I have tried my best..._

 _Can I ask one thing of any reviews this time? Please tell me what you hope for the next chapter to hold and why. (I'm basically struggling with how to write Charles again...so any inspiration form you lovely talented lot would be GREAT. Long reviews make me so happy so thank you!)_

 _I LOVE YOU ALL for reviewing, so much. I move to London tomorrow so I'm not sure how I'll get on as to the next chapter because I start my new job on Monday, but I'll try. It's my favourite way to procrastinate in the evenings, after all!_

 _LOVE & HUGS,_

 _Stars Walk Backward_

* * *

 **XV**

* * *

 _"I loved you in secret._  
 _First sight, we love without reason._  
 _Oh, twenty-five years old.  
How were you to_ know...  
that _my love had been frozen?_  
 _Deep blue, but you painted me golden?_  
 _Oh, and you held me close._  
 _Oh, how was I to know?_

 _I could've spent forever with your hands in my pockets,  
_ _picture of your face in an invisible locket.  
_ _You said there was nothing in the world that could stop it.  
_ _I had a bad feeling._

 _And darling, you had turned my bed into a sacred oasis,_  
 _People started talking, putting us through our paces_  
 _I knew there was no one in the world who could take it  
I had a bad feeling._

 _But we were dancing  
with our hands tied.  
_ _We had our hands tied,  
but we were dancing."_

 ** _–– 'Dancing with Our Hands Tied' – t.s._**

* * *

Moments of Molly's life since meeting Charles often came back to her in flashes. It was easy, she supposed, to get preoccupied with day-to-day life, both of a domestic and military kind, and forget the breathless wonder that had been the first six months of their relationship when the entire thing had been their thrilling little secret. It was only as she lay awake for hours or attempted to distract herself from her demons that the memories would arrive of their own accord, wrapping her up in their silk reverie until she was tangled and barely able to draw herself back out, never mind tell the shit from clay within her mind.

Now, as she fidgeted in the waiting room of the local community NHS centre in Aldershot, Molly found herself wrapped up and tangled just that same way. Charles' father had dropped her off on the way to taking Charles home, since he was not yet in any state to drive. Charles had near-insisted her come into the clinic with her but thankfully Oliver had reminded his son before Molly even opened her mouth that his daughter-in-law was a decorated soldier and didn't need babysitting. She had slid from the back of the car with an apologetic smile, only realising once he had driven away that she had not kissed Charles goodbye. Usually she simply wouldn't care all that much since she was never particularly mushy, but since almost losing him, she felt weighed down by the guilt of every mistake she had ever made.

Her stomach swam and left her feeling hot and cold all over and she half wondered if she could get out of the stupid therapy session if she vomited in the waiting room, because she honestly felt as though she might. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, rousing her from her fretting with the very welcome distraction of a text message from Charles.

 _Finally got my phone charged up again. Just wanted to remind you that you are stronger than you know and that I will love you until the day I die, therapy or no therapy… but since I'm contractually tied to you in sickness and in health, please try NOT to hit any of the psychologists? They're not being nosey buggers entirely – they are just trying to help you… Please let them and I promise I will try to do the same. I miss you already. LYL. C x_

The rare use of text language made her smile, but beyond that she found she was struggling to manage to let his words sink in, no matter how earnestly they were intended. Her inbuilt predisposition for feeling inadequate always reared its ugly head, no matter her accomplishments. It did mean a lot to her that he was willing to admit his own issues with seeking therapy treatment, because that had previously been a key disagreement between the two of them. _Typical Charles,_ she thought, smirking, _only coming to such a relatively simple realisation after being kidnapped by bleedin' terrorists._

"Mrs. Molly James-Dawes?"

It took Molly a millisecond too long to hear her own name being called, so when she did stand up, she stumbled awkwardly in a hurry to follow the nurse down the corridor. She could have sworn she could hear a funeral march echoing in her ears with every step, as it felt more and more as though she was walking to her death. She was never good at talking about deep and meaningful shit, even with Charles. How on earth was she going to manage _this?_

"Hi, Molly? I'm Doctor Jaspreet Kahn," the friendly face said as she entered the room. She must have been around thirty five, Molly guessed, so only half a dozen years or so older than Charles. She was a pretty woman wearing a floral hijab that complimented her deep olive skin tone. Molly smiled, instantly reminded of Bashira. "Have a seat."

Molly shook her hand, hoping her own had not been to clammy, and just about then managed to settle onto the sofa, though she felt so rigid and uncomfortable that it felt silly to be on such a soft piece of furniture.

"This is much nicer than me' local NHS clinic back home," Molly said lamely, instantly wondering why she had even said it, but she could not seem to stop herself. "Y'got sofas and sweets on the secretary desk an' everything. Me' husband's son would be chuffed––."

"––Your husband's son? Not yours, then?"

Molly paused, mid-flow, barely having processed what she had said. She was so nervous, her verbal vomit, as Charles called it, had all but taken over. "Me? A mum? Ha! No, Charles was married before – before we met. He's a top little man, Sam. Soft and sensitive, just like his dad, bless him."

"I just thought it was an interesting choice of words for you to use is all. You don't call him your step-son?"

Molly, yet again, found herself tripping over her own thoughts, having expected nothing like such a reply. Frowning hesitantly, she thought about this. It _was_ a strange thing to say. "I just don't want to step on anyone's toes… and I'm not sure I can really call myself a mum." Molly thought back on the number of times she had mothered the little bleeders when her mum had been nursing the littl'un, realising how often she probably _had_ been the responsible one in her parents' household… In between horrifically _irresponsibly_ nights out, of course. "Not yet, anyway," she added, softly, momentarily distracted at the sudden image of a tiny version of Charles in her arms. It once spiked a flush white hot panic up from her stomach, but she suddenly noticed it did not do so with quite the same intensity anymore.

"How did you and your husband meet?"

Molly had to laugh then. "Surely the Army has it all down on my file, all Big Brother and that?"

Doctor Kahn smiled, though Molly could see she was perhaps a little bewildered by the forcefulness of her patient's chattiness and the volume of her voice. Instantly, she felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment and could instantly hear her mother's chastisement inside her head: _Inside voice, Molls._

"All the Army has passed onto me is the details of what to told the RMP during your recent interview, as well as your statement of complaint. I would most like two hear it all from you, though; as little or as much as you are comfortable with."

Hesitating, Molly attempted to swallow as she reached for the jug of water on the table. "Well, it's pretty stereotypical of us army lot, really. Charles and me met on my first tour," she divulged, focussing on telling the easiest part of her story. Her mind suddenly filled with flashes of Charles in his uniform, standing with his hands on his hips as Afghan moon dust circled his feet and settled in his windswept curls. She felt like a schoolgirl around him back then, as opposed to partnered and equal as she did now.

"Not the most romantic beginning for you both," Dr. Kahn offered humorously, taking a sip of her own drink.

"Not 'alf!" Molly agreed. "Nothin' says 'shag-able' like latrines, blood and moon dust."

The two laughed half heartedly but in the quiet that followed, Molly knew she was waiting for her to divulge further. Suddenly, she needed a drink again, simply for something to do with her fidgeting hands.

"So, you're here today because the armed forces require an evaluation of your mental health after what happened to you and to offer you any support and or treatment you may require as to your mental health. The specifics of all we discuss here will remain entirely confidential, though the army may require my official diagnosis should you but put forward for another role of active service within the army. You paperwork my also be asked for should the army require it for their case at military court. Does that all sound familiar to you?"

Molly gulped, managing to agree with a simple nod.

"Alright, good. That's the boring bit settled. I suggest we start at the beginning. There is no rush nor pressure in these sessions. We can discuss whatever you feel comfortable discussing. It's really up to you. Is there anything on your mind today specifically?"

Trying to focus on her breath, Molly took a long moment to consider this. _Was_ there?

"Just Charlie."

Doctor Kahn's face didn't give anything away as she looked down at her papers and made a note. "Your husband?"

"He's trying so hard to help," she murmured, unsure where the words were coming from, never mind what might leave her mouth next. Looking down at her hands in her lap, still so tanned from the Afghan sun, she turned her wedding ring around her finger.

"And that's a problem?"

Shaking her head, Molly closed her eyes, trying her best to even understand _what_ she was trying to say herself. "No – I don't know – maybe?" She instantly fell guilty as she said it. "The bugger's _so_ kind and _so_ caring it just makes me feel bad that I'm… so _shit_ right now. I just want to be better, for _him_ , but I feel…when his friend even _hugs_ me…like I need to run for the hills." Her throat ached furiously as it suddenly felt so full with a solid lump of unshed tears.

"Well, there are two things that we can say about that. Firstly, when you say it makes you want to 'run for the hills', do you mean it triggers _fear_ , or simply gives you flashes of what happened?"

Molly clenched her hands in her lap, trying to recall what it felt like. "I don't know. It jus' happened so fast. Elvis – Charlie's wanker of a best friend – hugged me unexpectedly an' for a moment it was like… I just couldn't stop thinkin' about unfamiliar hands on me and how much I wanted to get them off." Barely able to look up at Doctor Kahn, she sighed shakily. "Me nut was all over the shop and my pulse was pounding in my ears… but it was just _Elvis_! How could I be that screw loose because my husband's _best man_ touched me?"

"Well, it is understandable and not uncommon for surprise touches to the skin to trigger trauma if unfamiliar touching was a part of the original incident."

Molly could barely even look up, instead staring solidly at the soft engraving on her wedding ring. "'Suppose."

"Do you feel as though you are back in the moment again, when it happens? Can you see or hear or even smell anything that isn't in fact there?"

Molly closed her eyes, trying to resist the urge to clench them shut, as she attempted to recall the panic she had felt when Elvis had embraced her without warning. "No," she replied hesitantly. "It was too rushed for that. I just suddenly couldn't focus on anything else… I think it was the callous skin on his hands because––." Looking up at Dr. Kahn, she tried to smile, "––because _His_ hands were even more rough."

"The man who raped you?"

The word seemed to take all the breath from Molly's lungs, so it was all she should do but nod. "Army hands are always calloused to high heaven," she murmured gently, looking down at her own, scuffed and dry.

"Forgive me if I overstep – you can refuse to answer anything you wish – but, do you feel this anxiety when your _husband_ touches you? I imagine his hands must be calloused, too, if he is a soldier too."

Somewhere deep in the back of her mind, Molly wanted so much to laugh, thinking what Charles would say. _"You spent_ how _long talking about…my_ hands?"

"They are," Molly replied, more certain in my voice again. "But he somehow manages to keep them less raw even than mine. I didn't know how and then one day I noticed the package of hand cream his mum had shipped to him that the soft bugger was trying to hide from me." She grinned, her eyes straying to the back wall, considering how hideous the wall art was. "Nah, his hands don't trigger nothing… Thank god." Dr. Kahn was smiling gently at her, which reassured her this was a good sign. " – Not that I'd ever tell the arrogant _sod_ because his head is already so big I wonder sometimes how it fits in his combat helmet – but his touch has always made me feel… _teenager-y_."

Dr. Kahn scribbled something down, offering her another smile. "And by that you mean… you feel young and free around him?"

"To begin with… yes and no." Molly cleared her throat, wondering why they were still talking about Charles. "He was my Commanding Officer, my first tour." Swallowing and looking down in the hope of avoiding Dr. Kahn's inevitable look of surprise, Molly carried on: "So, 'e used to intimidate the daylights out of me… until one day, he didn't."

"He intimidated you because he was your superior? Or because you were attracted to him?"

Molly snorted in derision. "Y'could say both." When Dr. Kahn didn't laugh along, instead looking thoughtful, Molly's apprehension returned, suddenly worried she was being judged. Instantly, she tucked a piece of imaginary hair behind her ear as she often did when she was anxious, clearing her throat. "He was so stern and… Oh, _bollocks,_ I can't even remember the word! _Eloquent_ , I think?" She asked, nibbling her bottom lip in insecurity. "He would know the word I meant if he was here. 'e always had the most complicated and flowery answer for everything."

"So, he teaches you? Vocabulary?"

Molly rose her eyes to meet the educated woman across from her, expecting to see judgement in her eyes but instead only seeing passive intrigue and careful attention. "'e likes to think he does," Molly commented dryly, rolling her eyes. "He was my teacher in the army kind of, being my CO an' all… an' then ron' – _sorry,_ I mean, _later on_ – when we started seein' each other and tha'… He slowly kept trying to help me, but in a kind, nurturing way, you know? Although we did have one or two scraps abou' it in the early days."

Leaning forward, Dr. Kahn cocked her head to the side in interest. "About him trying to help you with your language skills?"

"Because 'e was on my bloody case so much to make me speak better an' act more like the lady that I never was," Molly replied honestly. It felt strange, she thought, digging up such old disagreements. They seemed a lifetime ago now… and so insignificant. "It made me feel like 'e was trying to turn me into one of them…up-their-own-arse women his parents had tried to pair him with before… Bu' in the end, we had the mother of all rows about it and it made me realise 'e just wanted me to be the best _me…_ " Unseeing, Molly smiled down at her hands, thinking back to the most intimate and glorious make-up sex they had engaged in all through that same night… after they both took a door or two off their hinges.

"He sounds like a very admirable man," Dr. Kahn supplied, though Molly could tell she was offering comment just to get Molly to continue to talk. After all, that's what these sessions were for: to spill out your guts to someone who's paid to listen.

"When we met, 'e seemed to care _more_ about his platoon than even his own family…" Images of him in his paddling pool momentarily flooded her mind, and she had to try hard not to flush. "I never thought he'd look at someone like me."

"Why?"

Molly's mouth hung open as she realised she hadn't really ever voiced the answer aloud. "Because he's so bloody posh an'…because he was the most drop-dead, spit-on-your-neck bloody _handsome_ man I'd ever seen," she confessed, feeling her cheeks warm.

"And that intimidated you?"

Molly opened her mouth to reply only to pause and reconsider. _Did_ his attractiveness intimidate her?

"Well… I dunno'," she said lamely. "I just knew 'ow it would look, him and _me,_ you know, to all his fellow officer mates… I _still_ don't know why he puts up with me but I'm bloody _grateful_ because… well… He's my lifeline, really."

Dr. Kahn's perfectly tidy eyebrows shot up and instantly left Molly feeling bashful about confessing this, one of her greatest insecurities. "That's very self-deprecating, Molly. What makes you think so negatively about yourself? Do you really think of him as so much better than you?"

"Well, the bugger went to a public boarding school an' I didn't even get barely any GCSE's!" Molly laughed in an incredulous tone. "He regularly uses long words he knows I ain't gonna understand because he's an arrogant sod who likes to have a laugh. His family have more money than I would even know how to write _down_ an' to top it off, he just so bloody beautiful he makes me feel like a one of my grandpa's deformed _potatoes!"_

"Well – I think you are being a little hard on yourself." Dr. Kahn gave her a smile that said she was mulling all this information over. "And what do all your family think of him?"

"Dave originally thought I'd gone off it," Molly drawled, hoping her tone translated how utterly disinterested she had always been about her father's opinion. "'e was _epicly_ intimidated by Charles' family and how natural it is to him to put others before shit that _he_ thinks is life or death, like trips to the pub or actually _keepin'_ a bleedin' job."

"And your mum?"

Molly smiled as the memory of her introducing Charles to her mum and nan, who couldn't keep their mouths shut for the entire two hours. "Her and Nan's traps were hung open so long I was surprised they didn't catch flies."

Dr. Kahn managed a small laugh. " _That_ handsome, hm?"

Molly couldn't keep back the grin that automatically stretched across her lips. Momentarily the two women shared a moment of eye contact that made Molly feel, momentarily, as though they might just get on outside of the four walls of the NHS trauma centre. Molly knew that the doctor was trying to create a rapport with her, but in that moment she could have sworn that the woman looked her age for the first time.

"He's got these _eyes_ ," Molly murmured softly, feeling her cheeks growing hot but enjoying the opportunity to finally _talk_. "So bloody cheeky and a dark brown colour that I had never thought of as attractive before I met him… an' even though he was my boss, sometimes he would look at me and… I dared to hope, just a _little_ even…"

"And now, here you are," the doctor smiled, reminding her of her fortune. "I am intrigued to know, though. How was it, meeting someone in a situation of such life and death? That must have been very trying."

"'e almost died on that tour," Molly admitted softly, attempting to remain as light hearted as possible. "I made the mistake of getting too involved with a little Afghan girl who's dad was Taliban and because of that, we ended up on a mission that almost cost him his life… an' eventually killed my friend, too – Smurf. What an idiot."

"You feel solely responsible?" Dr. Kahn questioned, sounding surprised. "That seems slightly irrational, Molly. From what I have written here, you are the reason your colleagues survived – and the Queen honoured you with the Military Cross." Her voice was calm and kind and reminded Molly of that one soft-spoken, kind mum that used to greet her every day as she hung by the school gates, despite the fact she didn't know her. She had wondered what on earth the woman was doing it for back then, but secretly had always wished that her own family gave off such positivity.

"It's not just that," Molly insisted impatiently, rubbing my hands over her face. "I hurt Smurf in a way that was so much worse than some bloody bullet. We _both_ did, Charles and me, all because I was too bloody chicken – and then too bloody _angry_ with Charles over him lying to me about his being technically still married – to set Smurf straight! Me and him had one moment of weakness just before that mission and Smurf _saw._ It sent him off it with this _rage_ and next thing I know, him and The Boss are shouting at each other in the middle of the operation and then there's blood pouring out of Charles' stomach an'…"

She finds to her surprise, she has to pause. She hadn't taken a breath in what felt like minutes. The images of her hands covered in Charles' blood were suddenly back, _there,_ here.

"Deep breaths, Molly," Dr. Kahn advised, seeming to read her mind.

"And then, after being shot in the arm because of his rage, Smuf dropped dead in front of me a few weeks later."

There was a moment of quiet after Molly's sudden outburst as she grappled to understand how and why she lost control so suddenly. She focused solely on her breath until she couldn't see the blood anymore.

"I'm sorry you lost your friend. It must have been very hard to witness that." Molly just shrugged. "It's important to note that self blame is nearly always manufactured within the mind as a way of trying to rationalise something awful," Dr. Kahn explained. "It sounds as though you carry a lot of it with you from this first tour that you have never quite come to terms with. Did you see someone for PTSD?"

Molly sighed, suddenly feeling weary. "It would be in my file. I did see someone, after what happened to Smurf. They cleared me for active duty, so I went off to train medics."

"I just do worry that you still carry some of this around more than you should and we don't want it to hinder your ability to move on from _this_ trauma. It is important to note that _none_ of this is your doing, firstly. Smurf, you say, died of a brain bleed?" She asked rhetorically, beginning to sound like Charles when he was on a role of proving Molly wrong. "Those, I assure you, are very hard to spot even by the best of Doctors and very often fatal besides. His reacting recklessly and unprofessionally because he discovered something he did not like? That is not your fault, either. Yes, perhaps, the moment of weakness was not wise, but how were you to know he would see, if it was in private as I'm assuming it was? Just because people behave badly in your presence, doesn't make it your fault."

The jump in Molly's throat had returned with a vengeance, making swallowing back her impending tears feel almost impossible. She wasn't sure why she was about to cry, feeling furious for herself with being so easily overwhelmed all of a sudden.

"What about now?" Dr. Kahn probed. "Do you blame yourself for what Captain Lawrence has done to you?"

"Well, if I hadn't had such a big gob and just kept my head down, maybe I wouldn't have pissed him off."

"Your behaviour shouldn't have made any difference, Molly. A rapist is a rapist is a rapist. They thrive on taking power from their victims and then convincing them that their manner or their clothing made them somehow deserve it, but they _don't._ If a man wants to punch someone enough, shoot someone enough… he will eventually do it. If a rapist wants to rape? They will find a space and a time to do it. That issue is within _them,_ not within _you_ just because you were the one that triggered it. _"_

 _"_ Then _, why me?!"_ Molly murmured sorrowfully, bowing her head. "Why did he have to choose to do this _me?"_

Dr. Kahn stood, moving to offer her a box of tissues, which Molly took tentatively.

"Perhaps because you know your own mind… but honestly Molly, there most likely isn't an definitive reason why you specifically. Most likely just the wrong place at the wrong time."

Molly thought about this for a while, fiddly with the tissue. "He told me I couldn't tell because he'd say I seduced him; that they would all believe _him_ because I was the girl who married her first CO. But nothing happened _on tour_ with Charles. We waited out _,_ " she repeated, unable to count how many times she had said such a thing. "But then again, why would them lot believe me about _this_ CO, if I _married_ my first one after one tour with him?"

"Marrying a colleague is much more normal in the forces than you realise!" Dr Kahn replied, twirling her pen. "As long as a person doesn't act on it while on active duty, getting involved with someone in your chain command is pretty normal – and psychologically, it makes sense."

Molly frowned, thoughtfully. "What d'you mean?"

"Well, you said yourself that on tour life is hard, you rely on your Section to survive just as they rely on you. You are thrown into high adrenaline situations with them and when they protect you or you them, that forms one of the strongest bonds possible." Dr. Kahn's eye contact never strayed from Molly's, but Molly until now had found it hard to maintain. Now though, she was intrigued by what she was learning. "Now, since you risked your life on multiple occasions for your Section, it is perfectly understandable that they begin to feel protective of you, especially as the only female."

"So… they think I'm weaker?"

Dr. Kahn appeared to find this conclusion amusing. "It doesn't sound to me if you've ever been weak in any aspect of life, Molly," she paused. "It's just a reality of our biology, as much as we might try to get away from it. That was why there was a lot of opposition for women joining the front line for a long time, because there's an opinion that the male soldiers will be unable to prevent their natural instincts to protect the females."

Molly barked out a laugh. "Charles would not like the idea that he was being told what to do by his biology. He's far too much of a professional Bossman for that!" she giggled.

Doctor Kahn smiled. "Now, whether that be a sound reason or not, it is very common for men and women to therefore discover they have intense emotional connections with one another despite chain of command. I have met quite a few in the time I have been taking these cases."

Sniffing furiously, Molly looked down at her lap. "I just hate feeling like people won't believe me," she said, practically a whisper.

"If there are superiors who are inclined to assume wrong of women _just_ because they fall in love, then they do not belong in their profession. Soldiers are still people, after all."

Making a noise of cynical derision, Molly found herself rolling her eyes and thinking that the woman can't have ever set foot in a barracks in her life. "Belong or not, they are bloody well there. There's 'oards of them; catcalling and sniggering just because a human being walked in the room that don't have a bleedin' _penis_."

Doctor Kahn had her chin leaning on her hand, leaving Molly considering that she had perhaps said something wrong.

"So, would you say you have grown to expect disrespectful behaviour from men?"

Molly pressed her lips together in careful consideration. She felt almost ashamed to admit the extent to which that was true. After all, she had grown up in a house with a man for a father who never helped her mum when she asked and called for women to make him a cuppa' every hour or so as though he did not have two working legs and arms of his own. Beyond that, school had proved no better for improving her opinion of men. By the time she was fifteen, Molly had decided that there was no such thing as the romance that the soppy films her mum liked to watch at Christmas. So becoming a typical teenager, wrapped up in angst, she eventually gave in to their pathetic, _obviously_ paper-thin charms, choosing to lose her virginity in the now-defunct social club toilet, despite the fact she could see straight through the lad's weak attempts at convincing her he didn't just want a shag. And all because she had been so desperate for her life to be different; to feel _anything_ at all.

"Well, yeah," she said, lamely. "Ain't much options in East 'am… Me' dad spent more time down The Wakefield than in his own house when I was a kid an' these days he only helps Mum out with the littl'un because I ain't there anymore."

"It must have been hard, to grow up without a father figure to look up to."

Molly made a noise of disinterest, wanting to laugh. "Look, I ain't trying to shit on your profession, since you obviously know what you're on about… but I ain't got daddy issues or nofin', if that's what you're gonna' say."

Dr. Kahn smiled, thankfully amused. "I don't subscribe to such stereotypes. I just know that disrespect can be hard to pinpoint if it's all you've ever been accustomed to."

Molly pursed her lips in thought, suddenly reminded of how hard it was for her to disguise Charles' intense need to show her she was loved, often so overwhelmingly that she would have to take a step back, in the beginning.

"Do you struggle to be in the presence of men since what happened to you?"

"Well, as I said, I can only stand when Charles touches me… and even then, if he sneaks up on me I jump out of my skin," Molly replied, lowly. "The army gave me clearance to have decompression with my old Section, so I've spent the last five days out in Kenya with the lads… and Charles, once he was rescued."

"Ah!" Dr. Kahn exclaimed, looking down at her file. "Now I understand what this means here. Your husband _was_ the British soldier who was taken in Kenya last week?"

Molly gulped, fighting off memories of Charles' horrified and exhausted face in the footage the terrorists had taken, managing to nod.

"He was taken after your assault occurred, then?"

Again, she found herself feeling mute, her head bobbing up and down in agreement.

"That must have been very traumatic for you in and of its own, to have to see that happen to someone so close to you while also dealing with your own trauma."

Shrugging, Molly raced to dash a single tear from her eye. "I was _so_ buzzin' to see all the lads again but I just… I couldn't tell them about… what had just happened to me," she fretted in a whisper. "They're like my brothers and they wouldn't know what to say. They'd look at me different." Trying her best to take a deep breath, she found she barely could. "An' then Charles came back and all I wanted was to feel relief but… I couldn't. I just keeping feeling like _He_ might…jump out at me at any moment…"

"Just remember to breathe," she reassured, taking a note. "Take everything a day at a time. Recovery is a marathon, not a sprint. Call Charles if you're anxious, perhaps?"

"I can't get back into 'normal'. I'm not even sure I know what normal _is_ , now and I'm worried he'll get sick of me being out of my nut."

"It's expected for rape victims to feel disassociated," Dr. Kahn reassured gently. "It will take time for you to feel comfortable in your own skin again… but you _will._ "

Molly found herself wrinkling her nose doubtfully. "I don't want to make him worry."

"He's your husband – isn't that his job, to worry about your wellbeing?"

"But, if he worries he'll get his knickers in a twist wanting how to. _fix_ everything! Y'don't know what he's like." Molly shocked herself with the sudden volume of her retort. She dropped her head into her hands, pushing her hair behind her ears. "Bloody Captain that he is! It's not like he can fix _this_."

"Of course not," Dr. Kahn agreed gently. "But, it _is_ important that you let him _try_ and help you, Molly. Not only for the sake of helping _him_ cope, but also to help yourself."

"Help _him_ cope?!" Suddenly, she resented the very thought that _he_ might be considered to be suffering over _her_ rape. " _He_ wasn't the one who had some randy fucking slimy, Scottish _bastard's_ penis forced into him!"

Dr. Kahn did not seem at all phased by Molly's sudden anger. If anything, it seemed to please her.

"No… but he was the one who has had to watch his wife struggle with one of the hardest of life's more horrific psychological traumas… and all while he wasn't there to help, but was being kidnapped by terrorists," Dr. Kahn offered another one of her well rehearsed but sincere smiles. "I think all of this is a testament to the kind of woman you are, that you have thrived despite such adversity and even when these kinds of things happen, you still worry about your husband more than yourself."

Molly's hand clenched as she continued to stare at the engraving on her ring. ' _I told you I wouldn't always be your boss…'_ it said, reminding her of the great social and military leap that had once existed between them. A leap that Charles made for her with the ease of breathing. ' _but let's face it, I was already yours. C.'_

"Your wedding ring?" the doctor asked, nodding her head in the direction of Molly's lap. Molly nodded. "I notice you study it when you're uncomfortable."

"Oh, yeah… Guess I do," she mumbled, lamely, unsure what she meant by it. "Second best thing when he isn't here to talk my ear off."

Again, if Molly's weak attempt at humour to cover her discomfort was noticed by Dr. Kahn, she did not make a point of it, instead just offering a small, encouraging smile.

"I just worry I brought this on myself accidentally my big, fat gob," Molly whispered, stroking the ring again.

"I guarantee you did not," Dr. Kahn replied firmly. "Try not to worry about Charles. You just need to support _each other,_ talk each other through it. After all, you both need to readjust after that has happened…and from what I can see, you might just be each other's best medicine."

Molly gulped water to try and force her tears back. "I hope y'right."


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Hey y'all,_

 _Greetings from London. So, as many as you from the OG Anthology group have probably witnessed, this chapter has been eating at me with its stubborn-ness. That and work life has left me with very little time to sit and tackle it... so, this is what I have so far, while I try and work on the mammoth task ahead that is, CJ's post action psychotherapy session..._ _Lord help me. Why do I get myself these tasks?_

 _Anyway, while writing this, I tried my best to consider how I would feel in Molly's shoes, as someone who overthinks and analyses (and hasn't witnessed war)... and I feel what I have written here is the bare MINIMUM of how women in this situation react and feel... but as I am fortunate enough to have never been through such trauma, this is all I could manage to write, since it's hardly cheery stuff to focus on._ _I hope you can see the necessity of chapters life these and not just jumping from action moment to action moment. The last thing I want is for this to feel like melodrama._

 _LOVE & HUGS,_

 _Stars Walk Backward_

 _P.S. Below is an extract from a podcast I stumbled on while at work this week and is part of the inspiration behind this._

 _ ***Trigger warning from now onward***_

 _Gabrielle Union, an actress, was raped by a stranger, at gunpoint, while she was at work in a store. In the interview quoted below, she talks not only about that but also about how it has impacted her life but thankfully also how it hasn't warped how she views and experiences sex. It's really been a great resource so I thought I would share some of the more relevant quotes if and when they feel right for what is going on here._

* * *

 ** _'A year after Gabrielle was raped, she said she only left the house to go to court or to therapy. When she did finally begin get to going out more, she would carefully evaluate the safety of the most mundane of public places:_** _"It started with, you know, anywhere that I didn't want to go anywhere that could be robbed... So, just figuring out where was a safe space. Going to restaurants, not sitting with my back to the door, always having an exit route. I felt like, if I could just be efficient, if I could manage the clock, I could eliminate the time where something terrible could happen to me... Eventually, that gave way to talking to myself in the parking lot of Target... 'The likelihood of you being robbed or murdered from here ton Target and back is very low... You're going to be fine. You're going to be fine.' But I'd be there, shaking and sweating.'"_

 ** _"Gabrielle Union is Fed Up",_** _'Death, Sex and Money'_ Podcast interview from WNYC.

* * *

 **XVI**

* * *

Molly was not sure why she had been so insistent that she would get the bus home from the clinic after her session with Doctor Kahn. Her mouth and her pride always seemed to run and result in Molly getting herself in ridiculously needless scenarios, usually simply when she wanted to get away from awkward silences. The most obvious of these instances was when she had lied through her teeth to Smurf and his mum so that she could escape having to travel any further in the heavy silence of their car. What she had _really_ been running away from in that moment had been the weight of _expectation;_ that of Smurf and his desperate, blind desire for her to be a docile girlfriend figure and that of Candy and her hopeful hope for Molly to be the guiding, grounding figure for her last surviving son.

Today had been no different, really. Molly had felt surrounded and intimidated by the weight of Charles' quiet, knowing he was overthinking each and every little thing she did because of _her_ own uncharacteristic quiet. She had not been alone in days and hadn't been _truly_ on her own in weeks, since before she started this most recent tour in fact and to be honest, she was desperate just for some breathing space.

Therefore, if she was being honest with herself, she had left the silence of her father-in-law's car and rambled that she would catch a bus home because she did not want to face Charles' inevitable twenty questions the moment she left the session. He wouldn't fire them at her, but they would trickle out all the same and it was hard enough having to dig up all the shit from a tour – never mind also having to do it all again on the journey home into the ear of someone who's opinion meant the most to you.

However, when it came down to taking the first step out of the clinic, Molly felt her teeth already set on edge. It was getting dark, despite being barely three o'clock in the afternoon, and suddenly the simple walk to the bus stop felt incredibly intimidating. Lingering in the warmth of the doorway, Molly gnawed her thumbnail anxiously, feeling the familiar flush of hot, suffocating panic begin to rise in her gut. A wave of cramp and nausea clenched in her stomach as she struggled to maintain her equilibrium. Bundled behind her large scarf, she struggled to keep her clammy hands from shaking. Mentally, she began berating herself for being so bloody flighty and too proud to admit when she was feeling stifled. If she had only had the fucking _balls_ to say she was anxious, then maybe now she wouldn't be being assaulted by such unexpected imaginary visions of men leaping out at her in the dark on a short walk to be bloody bus!

In her hand, her fingers gripped her phone tight, already feeling ice cold from the biting wind through the automatic reception door. Looking down at it, she was momentarily still as she gazed at her husband's still, grinning face.

"God, why aren't you here?" she muttered weakly, though it wasn't as though he could hear her. Closing her eyes, she battled within herself as to _where_ all her bravery had gone. She had fought on battlefields and crawled through a Russian minefield, for crying out loud! Dashing a single tear away, she gritted her teeth. _Where_ had _that_ Molly gone? Could she really have been so completely _obliterated_ by one scumbag of a man?

As though summoning him through sheer desperation, her phone chimed with the arrival of a new message.

 _How did it go? Are you okay? Call me x_

Suddenly, before she could change her own mind, she pressed down hard on Charles' number, watching anxiously as it dialled. It barely rang once before the dialling tone was interrupted by the baritone voice that rose goosebumps on her arms.

"Hi," he greeted gently. His voice was so soft that it seemed to rouse the emotional whirlwind rising in her. Teeth digging into her lower lip hard, she _ordered_ herself to keep it together – all too aware of the reception full of strangers behind her.

"Hi," she replied tightly.

"How was it? As painful as you thought it would be?" His question was evidently wrapped in humour, but Molly could barely find the breath to breathe, let alone laugh.

"It was…okay…not easy…," she replied in a whisper.

Usually, he would expect Molly to instantly reply with a barrage of one-sided conversation which told him that she was trying to cover something up. However, this usually meant she was already certain she had a solution and that she had decided she did not need his help. She would talk and talk until she had layered herself in so much bravado that she made herself feel normal again… _Usually._

On this occasion however, she was quiet; the kind of quiet that set his teeth on edge and made me want to bark orders at her to hide how helpless he felt.

"Molly," Charles murmured, calmly. She could practically _hear_ his frown through the phone simply by the tone he was using. "What's wrong? What is it?"

Trying to take a breath, Molly panted, blinking furiously to keep her vision clear. Her sleeve was clenched in her hand. "I…" Inside her head, Molly's mind was shouting at her, telling her to bloody well ask for his help if she was going to cry about it like a wuss! Adversely though, she found she couldn't. She hadn't the words in her mind for this feeling.

 _"Molly."_

His insistence only seemed to raise her hackles. The panic was swelling in her throat like vomit, tears falling silently again and again.

"Dawes, bloody hell, _speak to me!"_

His impatience seemed to throw her into the lurch. "It's just _dark_ and I—!" Her voice was a whisper as she gazed out at the increasing lack of daylight and the busy roads in the rain. "Can you just talk at me while I walk to the bus, please?"

On the other end of the line, the wind was taken out of Charles' sails. When he spoke again, stern Captain James was gone, leaving her tender husband behind. "Of course! I'm here," he breathed with a quiet earnest that threw her back to the very first time he spoke to her like that, when he said the words now immortalised on her wedding ring. "I'm coming to get you," he declared concretely, sounding identical to the man she met that first day on the Brize tarmac.

"No, Charlie!" she protested instantly, feeling helpless and hating how dependent she sounded. She wanted to curl up into a ball and hide.

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly, I'm coming!" he said, his voice so reverent it often left her feeling dwarfed by his sincerity. "Let me come––."

"––You _know_ you can't drive with them ribs. Just… talk to me about anything. Please. That's all."

Charles sighed hard, sounding frustrated with himself. "Well, it's a good job you married a man with such stunning conversational skills, eh, Dawes?"

Molly managed a smile and the small joke seemed to power her across the threshold and out into the dim afternoon light. The cold bit, but Molly found she barely registered it.

"Big gob, you mean," she retorted, shrouding herself in her age old armour that allowed her to hide behind humour and comebacks. "I mean, suppose you're handsome at least."

"You _suppose?_ " His challenge is in jest.

Molly felt her breath shudder as she took a few more steps, tensing against the wind. As she moved further and further away from the bright clinical lighting of the unit, the oppressive orange sulphur light of there overhead lamps making her feel incredibly intimidated. She wondered in that moment why they had to be orange, those lights. It was hardly good for visibility and, to be honest, fucking _depressing_.

Her thought process was interrupted at the sight of a group of men walking on the pavement in her direction, laughing far too loud. Instantly, she stalled, the crunching sound of tiny stones beneath her feet. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt her pulse leap painfully.

"Molly?"

Her hands were shaking in her pockets as she inwardly screamed at herself to get it together. She might have said something aloud to try and pacify him, but she if she did, she did not even hear her own voice. Her breaths became very shallow and overlapping.

"Hey. _Hey!"_ Charles hollered in her ear, yet again managing to read her mind, even through the tenuous link of a mobile phone. "Stay with me, Dawesy, hm?" Swallowing hard, she tried to focus on the soft, _sure_ tone of his voice. "Focus on my voice. None of it is real. Just this; just me."

She tried to laugh, needing the lightness of humour to lift what felt like the strength of the whole world tightening on her throat. As the men neared, she felt so shaky that she was sure the wind might blow her over. Still though, her feet managed to keep her moving forward.

"I think I've finally lost my last marble," she choked, trying to be hunourous despite the fact her throat ached so with unset tears it hurt to talk.

"No," Charles reassured smoothly in her ear. "It's just fear. You know what fear can do to even the best of people. You're seen much worse, remember?" His voice was filled with the playful wonderment he so often deployed when he was attempting to cheer her up. "You're a _jewel_ of Her Majesty's Army, recipient of a _Military-bloody-Cross;_ you once crawled across a minefield without so much as a second thought to save your friend. You are _mighty_ and every day I am awe of how strong you are." Her anxiety peaked just as the men came close enough to meet her eye. Her shoulders rising as her muscles constricted, coiling ready to run from the strangers and whatever threat they might be about to pose. "Do you hear me?" The voice of Captain James, Bossman extraordinaire, echoed in her ear like it had in those ear days, the steadfast voice of reason powering her through hell and back. "Your strength _dwarfs_ that of anyone I've _ever_ met. If you can face Afghan and…and… fucking _Ebola?"_ He paused and gave out a little laugh, as though whatever direction his thoughts had taken was utterly baffling. "And deal with me in my sulks––?"

"––Oh, don't remind me, mate," she interrupted dryly, trying to wipe her eyes.

"––Then you can face _this_."

As though dictating to the universe simply through his relentless certainty alone, the strangers made their way passed, barely glancing at her, leaving her standing on the pavement with trembling icy hands, feeling hot with how ridiculous she felt. The oxygen that filled her lungs was sudden and overwhelming as she became heady with relief.

"Speak to me, soldier! If I can't fucking move at least sp––!" Charles asserted urgently, causing guilt to stoke in her gut.

"––Sorry!" she breathed weakly, almost wanting to laugh at herself as the men tootled on and passed her. In her ear, Charles was non the wiser to this sudden change, she she suddenly in such a hurry that she almost fell over her own feet at least twice. "Oh, Charlie," she breathed shakily, laughter now falling from her mouth as easily as the air she breathed. "God, I've made a prize _tit_ of me'self,"

"Don't _apologise_ – and you're not a tit," he replied softly. Molly could visualise the soft shake of the head and ripple of his strong brow that would usually accompanied such a gentle tone. "Just hurry home so I can look after you, for fucks sake."

Eyes trained on the pavement in front of her, Molly suddenly felt the same boost of anxious drive that she had suffered with ever since her first tour; the same anxiety that had driven her to phases of near-obsessive exercise whenever she was feeling fragged. The icy air was so raw in her throat that it burned, but she welcomed it. It gave her something to focus on.

"Y'can barely look after y'self right now, mate. You ain't Superman!" she countered, trying to return to lighter topics, but her humour felt brittle and transparently ineffective even as she said it… because sometimes, he really _did_ seem to think he was beyond human limits.

"Pha!" He scoffed. "Neither are _you_ ," he counters poignantly, which triggers a typical noise of indifference from Molly, because if there was one things she knew for sure, it was that there was nothing 'super' about her.

Charles chatted more _at_ her for the entire trip home on the bus, mostly about nothing at all. She gripped the handrail with one hand, cradling the phone with the other, trying to resist the eager to scream simply for hope that it might ease the swarming, nauseating tension in her gut that swirled and warped. By the time she reached their local bus stop and had to face the darkness outside, she had decided she was going to jog home simply so she could get there faster.

At their little front gate, she came to an abrupt halt, the night air scolding her throat as her chest heaved, as she suddenly saw a familiar figure stood on the doorstep, leaning stiffly against the wall of the doorway. Despite suffering with injuries from a _kidnapping,_ there Charles was, stood out in the icy temperatures, still holding his phone to his ear and waiting for her. If it hadn't been for the fact she could barely comprehend her own senses, Molly would have felt sick with the way her heart was all-but _bursting_ to break free from her ribcage. Suddenly, all thoughts of her own wellbeing dissolved before she even had chance to notice.

"Charles! Are you _bonkers?_! You'll catch ya' _death_!" She knew she sounded like a hysterical mother, but she had never cared and she wasn't about to start now. As she reached the bottom step, she could see his skeleton juddering with the freezing temperature.

He was tensed, arms loosely crossed across his chest, trying his best to stand tall, wanting to shake off any sign of weakness in his usual Officer manner. "For you, it would be worth it," he replied lightly, bestowing her with a smile so warm she considered it might just thaw her icy extremities. She rolled her eyes at him almost entirely out of habit, nudging him backward with the most force she dare until they were both inside, breathing somewhat unsteadily with the bit of the cold.

"You're _hurt,_ you muppet – it's bloody taters out there! Are you _trying_ to be a bloody martyr or some'ing?!"

She knew she was not _really_ angry with him, just overrun with the emotions of the day. Charles, thankfully, seemed only the more impassive by her ranting, smirking at her in the way he always did when he wanted to laugh.

"Last thing I bloody need is to get _you_ home from war just for you to peg it with _pneumonia–_ –."As she shrugged off her coat, huffing and cutting herself off when it wouldn't move from her arm quick enough, he halted her frustrated movements with the gentle touch of one very chilly hand. He guided her curled sleeve over her hand with very little strength behind his movements at all since they both knew lifting his arms caused him pain, but the gesture hit her as no less thoughtful. Now, as she was forced to still, no longer about to take her frustrations out on him thanks to the silence, or her coat sleeve, she suddenly felt completely deflated, as though whatever had driven her to run home has been the last of the energy she had. There must have been a change in her as she paused at the first step of the staircase, leaning against the bannister with a sigh. Charles' silence made it all feel more real, because he would usually be chatting her ear off if she were this quiet. She could feel him watching her; she had always been able to feel it, ever since they met. The weight of a man's gaze always seems to be tenfold when it's the one that has a direct connection to one's gut, tugging and flipping it with a simple expression change. That was the first lesson Molly learned when she met Captain James. His particular plethora of facial expressions was impressive and seemingly never-ending; one of the things that she adored most about him. He thought he was such a closed book, when really, unbeknownst most things played out on his face as distinguishable as a piece of music. That's why now, she couldn't look at him. She didn't want to see the sorrow that was put there because of her, where there should be relief and contentment… or the questions she knew were coming.

Suddenly, the air was heavy and all his attempts at humour just seconds ago were forgotten. His hand come to reach for hers at her side. Turning her head, she watched from her slightly raised position as he lifted it enough to touch his mouth. Her heart faltered as she realised what he was doing, tenderly pushing out hot air from his lungs to warm her skin, which she now realised was almost blue with cold. Feeling psychologically beaten and exhausted, this one small act of tenderness seemed to be the straw to break the camel's back. With a throat that felt about ready to burst with unshed tears, she managed to swallow, before turning on her toes to face him. From her slightly elevated position on the bottom step, they were almost eye to eye for once. Leaning forward, she gently lay her face against his, forehead to cheek, nose to nose, trying not to lose the last shred of decorum she had left. Charles, remarkably, did not speak right away, instead lifting the other hand to his mouth, blowing out what felt like red hot streaks of breath from him lungs while ever-so-slightly nuzzling her face.

"I'm _here_ ," he said then, his voice soft and thick, as though he had just woken up from a long night's sleep. "No matter how hard this is, or how long it takes." At that, she met his eye. "I don't care if it means you have to shout, _scream_ , call me names, insult my bed-hair," he listed, his lips quirking despite the sorrow in his voice. "I don't care how long it takes. But the one thing I ask is you don't continue yourself that you're _alone_ in this, do you hear me? Because you'll _never_ be alone with your demons as long as you have me." Pressing a kiss to her face, so slight it felt like the press of the wind, he seemed to make yet another vow. "You will never be alone with in _anything_ long as you have me. Whether you like it or not."

Her certainty intimidated her on the best of days, never mind on days when she was struggling to keep her head about the waves of self-doubt. She tried to cling to all Doctor Kahn had said and stop herself from seeing it all as a hopeless battle. _You need to be open with one another,_ she had said. _'Easier said than done,_ ' was all she could think now. She felt shrouded in the version of herself that _He_ had now warped from the happy, confident version of her that had existed just a week ago. She wanted to scream, but she had no energy. She wanted to cry… but she also knew it would do nothing but upset Charles.

In short, she was really knee-deep in _shit._

"Hey," Charles whispered, waking her from a reverie that she hadn't even realised she was trapped in. "Stay with me," he cooed. The parallel of this new statement in comparison with their age old mantra, _'Come back to me,'_ struck her. When she managed to look him in the eye, they both fell quiet again. "Come on," he ushered gently, pulling her from the stairs, giving her the same soft encouraging smile despite his bruises. "I have a surprise for you."

His fingers curled around hers at the knuckles as he pulled her into the kitchen diner, trying his best to look back at her despite his struggles to twist his spine. As she moved into the room, her breath caught in her throat at the sight of a beautifully laid candle lit dinner, complete with a selection of her favourite 'no fuss' foods: Charles' homemade grilled burgers, potato waffles, leaves and even a three bean salad. Molly had been despondent toward even the very thought of food for so many days that the very sight of such a sumptuous spread made her stomach gurgle and growl aggressively. The sound roused a laugh from both of them, though Charles' was instantly followed by a grimace where Molly's was accompanied with a sheepish grin.

"Hungry?" Charles smirked, rigidly pulling out her chair for her just as he had on their very first meeting as civilians in Bath.

"Not 'alf!" She sighed in realisation, still a little shocked as she watched him manage to sit down slowly at her side. "'ere – just 'ow did you manage all this when you're 'alf crippled?!"

Charles' eyebrows quipped upward in mock offence to her choice of words, before giving in with a sheepish look. "Dad might have helped a little while you were out."

Flattered, Molly pursed her lips together and smiled gently at him, reaching to inspect the wine bottle between then as she fluttered her eyes at him.

 _"Oh, Sauvignon_!" she ogled dryly. "I _must_ be special! Can't find this kinda' shit down' East Ham battle cruisers!"

Charles gave her one of the looks he always gave her when she used a particularly example of the slang from her upbringing that he didn't understand, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing.

"Battle cruiser!" she repeated, shaking her head a little as though it were obvious. "Y'know? _Boozer?_ " Charles' face remained amusingly blank. "A pub, you prannet!"

" _Yes_ , _well_ , excuse _you_ , little Cockney madame!" he challenged teasingly. "I'll just get you the dog's piss your dad makes me drink next time, shall I?"

"Best not. We both know what happens with that shite."

Molly went to lift the dishes for him before he could even try to do it himself with his battled limbs. He smiled at her gratefully, the momentarily flicker of frustration disappearing from his eyes.

"How are you holdin' up?" She couldn't be sure sure why she asked, since she had only seen him a few hours before – perhaps to put off the conversation she knew would be coming.

He smiled shyly, shaking her question off with the momentarily tug of the left side of his face upward in a kind of expressional shrug. "Oh, just peachy, Dawesy. Although, much better now you're here."

"Charmer," she smirked in replied, though secretly her heart throbbed girlishly in her chest.

A companionable silence fell over the room as they ate, though Charles did so much slower thanks to his injuries. Charles was notorious for eating every kind of food with a knife and fork, even burgers, much to Molly's hysteria. Meanwhile, she would dig in with her hands, stuffing her mouth so full of food at that she didn't even notice Charles laughing at her until he made a comment at it wasn't about to run away from her.

"I know," she said, her mouth unceremoniously full. "But in my 'ouse, you don't eat if you don't eat fast; all the little bleeders an' that."

Charles of course knew this, but could never pass up an opportunity to tease her.

By the time they got round to desert, Molly's favourite Crunchie chocolate pudding, Molly was slightly put out by how quiet they were both being. The only real sound was the movement of the food around their dishes and their soft companionable murmurs as Molly offered Charles seconds. If she was honest with herself, she wanted to panic in that moment; she wanted _him_ to panic. _Anything_ to distract from what she knew was coming.

"The RMP called," Charles said gently when they had finished, taking her hand as he lay his own against the table. Beneath it, their lower legs touched as they tried to get as close to one another without moving from their seats. Molly gulped, choosing to look down at their hands. Suddenly, she couldn't think of a single thing to say that didn't fall flat on her tongue.

"Oh?"

He ducked his head in the way he always did when he wanted to get her to look at him.

"They've charged him."

Molly's throat felt so tight she wouldn't move, let alone breath, as she continued to watch his thumb move over and over the back of her hand as though trying to open her up with some sort of secret code. Mention of _Him_ made it all the more real; frighteningly real.

"They said that the DNA swabs you did on yourself from the med kit have cemented the Crown's case against him, so they also said to say well done for that."

" _Oh_ ," she breathed, the word but a mere exhale.

Quietly and out of sight from Molly's dipped, anxious gaze, Charles tried to reach up and tug the back of his curls, only to only just bite back the groan when he realised it hurt to do so.

"Okay, now––now I'm… The Dawesy I know is never mono-syllable—."

"—Yeah, well, _maybe_ I ain't sure who she is anymore, so."

The reply came as a complete surprised to both of them and much sharper than Molly would have ever intended, had she meant to say it at all. If the barb of her words had hurt him, he didn't say so. Instead, he sighed in the way he used to when she was a private who said something ludicrous.

"Well, that's funny, because I see her right in front of me." Molly went to pull her hand away, intent on telling him he had gotten the wrong end of the stick, but he gripped it hard enough that she couldn't. "Do you think the Molly Dawes that stepped on the tarmac at Brize that day would recognise you, if she were here now?"

There was a short moment of quiet as Molly considered this question, knowing that she most certainly would not have recognised herself. Too proud to admit he was right, she remained stubbornly silent.

"Do you think eighteen year old Molly Dawes who thought she was going to work in a _nail bar_ all her life would recognise you now?"

"Well, o'course not mate, but what's your point—?"

"My _point,_ " he interjects firmly, his thumb still making burning circles, "is that no one ever stays the same… The world is cruel to the complacent, but if there's one thing I've learned through all the 'bloody- _war'_ shit I've seen in my time, it's that we are what we make of everything."

Toying with a thread from her sleeve, Molly made a sound rather like a 'hurmph'. His familiar large hand came to bracket her face as he leaned his elbow against the corner edge of the table. Turning into his palm automatically, she smiled weakly. In the soft orange glow of the candlelight, she couldn't help but admire his beauty, despite the dark shadows under his eyes and the angry bruising on his face. The new beard gave even greater definition to his jawline and greater contrast with his warm, dark eyes, drawing her in to the point that she struggled to look away despite the clear anguish in them. She circled his thick, strong wrist with her hand, cupping the hand that held her face with her own. His thumb skimmed over her lower lip, up and over again, as though committing the simply curves to memory.

"We are what we make of everything," she echoed in a whisper, contemplating whether she truly understood the words he had chosen. "Does that mean I'm made of meaningless natter?"

He grinned, evidently trying not to laugh. "Oh, I think we both know you're more than that, Mrs. James… Although, I do personally adore your big, nattering gob."

Molly raised her eyebrows at him, unable to keep from taking a double entendre from his choice of words. Momentarily, they both smirked at each other, reminding Molly of the early days when sexual tension and chemistry would be so tangible between them that it would fizz and pop like an open flame.

"I don't think you even realise how far you have grown just in the time _I_ have known you," he whispered lowly, his thumb circling over her brow. "You faced war and some of life's most _hideous_ trials you thought you'd never come through, but you _did_ and you're _here._ You _will_ grow from this too – that I promise you."

Shifting in her seat, Molly distracted herself with clearing their dishes, leaving a kiss on his palm in hope of minimise the sting of her need for distance. His gaze was heavy on her as she moved around him, pleading her to look up, to sit down, to give into what they both knew was coming, but she just couldn't. If she let it come into the forefront of her mind outside the confides of the NHS crisis centre, she knew she would most likely never resurface.

"I jus' don't know how you can know that for sure, Charlie, because I don't." Her voice was muted, resigned as she cleaned the already immaculate counter just so she didn't have to look at him. "I ain't sure I'm ready to talk about it yet."

She dreaded looking up at him, expecting to see anxiety and insecurity in his eyes and not sure she was ready to feel the guilt that would cause.

"Molly." His voice was lower and gentle, kind, as though she were a sleeping animal. "Come here."

Pausing her needless cleaning, she took a shaking breath in. Picking up his painkillers from the side, she moved toward him slowly. When she was a foot from him, he cleared his throat and stiffly arose from his seat. Barely keeping in the groan of burning pain it caused, she was at his side in an instant, holding his arm at the elbow.

"Let's go and sit for a while. I've missed that ridiculously comfy sofa."

They did as he suggested, though it took some effort to get him down onto it.

Molly giggled, tiredly. "You realise how hard it's going to be to get y'up now, don't ya? I may as well get ya' some squatters rights for this spot."

She observed him simply smile at her, the wrinkles around his eyes creasing as he continued to look at her like he hadn't seen her in years. "Well, you can't leave a cripple down here, so looks like you'll be stuck here with me," he replied, his eyes never wavering. It would have been unnerving, had she not been so used to it. Near death experiences seemed to agree with him in a way they did with her, she thought. Unless, of course…

She shook off the alternative, which was that he was fragged to buggering and simply hiding it from them all, himself included, because he was trying to focus on her. Making a mental note to observe him carefully for the foreseeable, she snuggled up flush at his side, though careful not to lean on his chest without a cushion to soften her weight. He made a noise in the back of his throat as she reached over to put on some music channel he loved so much – (some geezer called Jools, apparently) – that was a combination of discomfort and contentment. She leaned against his shoulder, watching him as his eyes trained momentarily on the screen, instantly sprouting a fact about the way violins are still each made by hand and how one could still learn such a craft at college. She wanted to laugh and she would have, had this been a normal day, but suddenly she was weighed down with how very _precious_ this seemingly ordinary moment between them was, because she had almost lost him – again. She was here, her stomach full to bursting, and so was he. She just wished all the rest could wait.

 _Why couldn't it?,_ she suddenly wondered. Looking at his strong, angular features and the prominent veins on his hands as they held her with such care and tenderness, it felt as though she had been shaken with this sudden shift of perspective. _Why couldn't all that shit just… wait a while?_

It seemed her staring distracted him as his often did her, because he turned his head to catch her gaze knowingly, though kept surprisingly quiet, until he said: "What?"

She had her head cocked as she smiled at him, which no doubt unnerved him. Her lip sucked between her teeth, she tried not to lose her nerve. "Do you wanna' just… _snog on the sofa_ like the kids in films do, just for a bit?" Bashful that her request was utterly stupid and childish, the question come out as little more than a jungle of words followed closely by a nervous shrug. Charles seemed to consider her for a moment, raised eyebrows soon morphing into a slow, narrow-eyed expression that she knew well, his own lip catching between his teeth as he pretended to consider her proposal.

"Charlie!" she scolded bashfully wishing she was able to strike his chest to punctuate her displeasure. "If y'gonna' take the piss, then you can kiss the back of your hand from now on, mate."

"Alright, alright, keep your wig on," he rebuffed gleefully, turning his face as near to hers as he could without having to curl his spine. Molly made up the remaining distance, careful to mind his rib cage as she supported her weight against the back of the sofa. Her heart tripped and skipped painfully with him so close, the familiar sensation of his exhaling breath against her lips leaving her wondering how she ever survived so far away from him. Apprehensively, she pressed her lips to his, enjoying the sensation simply of feeling him kiss back against her with tentative care. She crept one eye open and her heart fluttered at the sight of the smile he wore, widening against her lips, despite the fact his eyes were still closed. He seemed lost in his own quiet bliss, and just like that, all her thoughts of the outside world disintegrated.

Slowly, she raised her hand to smooth her fingers over the planes of his face, feeling his smile widen even further under her hand. Her fingertips traced over the curve of his soft bearded jaw, following the taut tendons in his throat down to his collarbone beneath his t-shirt and back again, thriving by the way his breathing changed as she leaned up to join their mouths again. She caught his lower lip between her own, tugging enough to catch a sharp inhale in his throat. Spurred on, she reached up and pushed her fingers into his thick, buoyant curls, grazing her nails to delicate precision across his scalp.

"God, why did I ever leave you?" he breathed wistfully, the words whipping her breath from her as it felt almost as though he was saying a prayer against her skin. She didn't have an answer, so she just let the kiss go on, followed by another, then another. His hands barely moved from his sides and by that she knew he was in pain. Usually he was 'Mr. Eight Hands', or so she so often called him, because he would constantly grab and caress every inch of her that he could get his hands on, but not this time.

"You're hurt. We should—," she wheezed heavily, trying to pull away.

"—No, no," he gasped, his breathing ragged. His voice sounded startled, as though she had woken him from some kind of sleep, gentle but quietly urgent. "You're not going anywhere," he said, guiding her to straddling across his knees to keep her weight from his chest. "Please. I need to _just be_ a man… holding his wife… Please." She didn't miss the way he was careful not to grab at her hips, instead keeping his hands on the familiar territory at the arch of her spine. It was a relief, how observant he was, because she never had to explain herself over the things she could barely articulate in the first place.

Perhaps it was this age-old complacency that was the reason why his nightmares took her by surprise later that night. She woke within moments of his cry as it rang out through the darkness, as she was momentarily, violently perturbed by the bleakness of the sound. Of course it was not the first time he had suffered from bad dreams post-tour; he would hardly be human if he didn't. The difference between the two of them however was the fact that Molly's hung around a lot longer than Charles' did and that while the former was something they ended up discussing a lot because Charles would insist, the latter would often go undiscussed. It wasn't that Molly didn't _try_ to get him to open up _,_ because she bloody _did_ , but it was as though the rising of the sun the following morning would somehow eradicate whatever demons and anxieties that had been brought to the forefront of his mind in his sleep. She would often envy him that, because she was _always_ in her mind, reliving and encountering past and warped versions of the horrors she had seen. She used to wonder why she couldn't just turn it off or wake up with the emotional capacity to _decide_ that each day was a new one in the way that he did.

However, with the terrorised, boyish cry that projected from the back of his throat, Molly realised that the version of Charles James she knew, the gallant and the brave, was exactly that: _her_ version of him; the version of him he _wanted_ her to see.

" _Molly_?" he breathed into the dark, the tone alone asking her to find him in the shadows, to come as close to him as possible since he could not move. The guttural, agonised exhales escaped his throat and she knew that his anguish was causing him a whirlwind of pain, never mind the unimaginable images that his mind was tricking him with. " _Molly_!"

"I'm here." Her voice came soft but more sure than she had ever heard from herself. She had to gulp down the tears that his howls triggered, thick and heavy as tar, knotted in her throat. "Oh, Charlie."

He grappled for her in the darkness, unable to sit up or roll over, seemingly not only paralysed by pain but also all-consuming fear. Much like a child, such night terrors often lead one to lie there, half awake, trying desperately to make oneself to just _wake up._ As a kid, Molly could remember waking and daring not even scream, because she didn't want to wake the rest of the house, but in that moment it is _all_ her body yearned to do. Charles started reaching for her body, just as he had done in the previous year when nightmares of their first tour would sneak up on him, seeking solace in sheer physical closeness and the unparalleled intimacy between them. In such instances, Charles would usually say very little, roll on top of her and kiss her so hard that it would knock her breath out of her, as though his sleep-muddle instincts told him that kisses alone would give him back the calm the trickery of his memory had snatched from him. He would, in doing so, fall into an incredibly archetypal version of masculinity, which she was not sure he even realised; a primal need to lose himself in her body because she was a certainty to him, familiar and a reminder of he solace he so craved.

Now, she recognised that same tone in his voice and the way his fingers twitched against her sides and she knew that if it were not for his broken bones, she would already be pinned underneath the weight of his body and his insistent mouth. Now, he simply craned his neck as she moved to look over him and kissed her in the darkness, pleading with her when she pulled back to _just stay_. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could just about see the lack of recognition reflected in the whites of his eyes, a guttural and desperate desire to feel safe seeming to lead him straight to her body without his halting to consider what he was doing.

"I can't, Charles," she protested weakly, hating how shameful and weak she felt in denying him. "Please don't. I can't do that – not yet."

Like ice water, her rebuttal left him shaking but otherwise perfectly still, whimpering lowly, softly, mournfully, from the back of his throat. "I'm so sorry." She could barely stomach his shame on top of the shame she herself already felt, swamping her. "Fucking hell, forgive me, sweetheart. _Fuck—!"_ Instantly, she tried to pull back, alarmed by the echoes of war in his voice, but he leaned forward almost desperately to keep their mouths connected, a desperate exhale blowing across her face " _God,_ if you only knew how desperately—," he whispered, his voice groaning in an almost mournful manner. "I saw you there, in the desert sand," he wheezed, seeming to rush to tell her of the warped shadow that had shuttered his mind. "They dragged me out and I thought that was it—I tried so hard to remember you, every detail of you, but I couldn't—I _tried_ —!"

"—You're here now," Molly murmured, not understanding him and therefore immediately falling into the soft, certain tones she used so often as a mentor in an attempt to anchor him firm to reality. "You're here and you can have all the kisses you want." Leaning forward, she kissed him hard, cradling his face in her small hands the way he had done so often to her. "Just… please be patient with me and I'll be with you, wakin' me up with your big mouth."

Charles made a noise of blissful sorrow as he tried to pull her to him but found it hurt him to raise his arms so high. She could see him trying to repress the demons that he had long buried inside him after what had happened, slamming his eyes shut as he tried his hardest to keep hold of her; of the her and now.

"Those nutters can't have you." His next breath came out like a sob, a sudden shock of noise that would have taken her by complete surprise if she hadn't swallowed it down into her mouth and felt the sudden of his frame under her hands. "You don't have to be so brave, Charlie."

"Just… Don't ever let me leave you again," he whispered, his voice cracking so delicately that she was almost knocked backwards on the earnest weight of it. Molly felt as though she might lose the little control she had left. It's all she can do not to burst into tears against his face, instead choosing to pour everything she wanted to unleash into each kiss she pressed against his mouth, revealing in the soft bristle of his new beard and the heat of his breath.

"I mean, I'll try, mate, but we both know you love the Army more than you love me—."

"— _No_ ," he hissed reverently, putting an end to what she had intended to be a lighthearted comment as he claimed her mouth again. "Never. I could _never_."

It was all she could do to position herself so his face was burrowed into the crook of her neck where the t-shirt she wore, one of his, gaped and exposed her collarbone, soothing him in hushed, almost maternal-like tones as he so often had to her, but mostly she was hoping it would keep him from seeing the distress on her face.

"I'm sorry,' he whispered weakly, over and over, until the words were slurred and nonsensical. It didn't take long at all for him to fall back to sleep, since she could tell by the slur and panic in his voice that had never fully awoken from the haze of heavy, exhaustive slumber.


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Hey y'all,_

 _This is the first of two different sides to this particular chapter, one as perceived by Charles and the other by Molly, because, well, I think it's important that life can come across very different two different people... I did try to write a more linear therapy-based chapter for Charles like I had for Molly, but it just didn't feel like it fitted well here. I'll no doubt come back to it, if and when it's needed. At the moment I feel like Charles is so focused on Molly thatches' forgotten he's probably also not too good..._

 _I agonised over trying to craft this disagreement because I think it would only be natural and probably be the first of many almost exactly alike, so please let me know if you think it makes any sense to you. :)._ _Please leave me reviews if you can because I love getting them - especially long, character-analysis-y ones... if you feel like spoiling me._

 _LOVE & HUGS,_

 _Stars Walk Backward_

* * *

 **XVII**

* * *

When Charles was angry, he always found it very hard to cope, hence why he was infamous for what Molly had coined his 'sulks'. Molly often thought that this was because he could simply detach himself, but really it was the opposite. He was not ice cold in those moments, but _burning_ inwardly, entirely caught up in an endless inner monologue.

It had been two weeks since they had arrived home and one since Charles had had his first post-action psychotherapy session. He had discussed with Molly and come to the decision it could be good for them to both have the same doctor, though of course exact details of anything discussed could not be repeated to either one of them as much as they might ask. It did mean however that Doctor Kahn could give them a different, outsider perspective as to how to help each other through their respective issues. His own session, rather predictably, had featured a lot around Molly and Doctor Kahn had had to remind him each time that she was hired to discuss _his_ mental health in those sessions, not hers. It felt alien to him, he had said, to worry about himself that way.

 _"That is precisely why it's so important we focus on it,"_ she had said, her soft Punjabi accent sounding soothing and wise in equal measure he remembered. _"You are not a Captain of the British Army here, or in your marriage. You're a man, albeit a very brave one, who has seen things – things you cannot unsee – and you need to turn to express that and not repress it."_ She had warned him against closing himself off, having let slip that Molly had mentioned that was what he was known for.

 _"You seem to idolise your wife, in many ways."_

Well, yes, he had said, because of course he did. How _couldn't_ he admire her beyond words?

 _"She crawled across a minefield at the very moment when I underestimated her the most,"_ he had confessed. _"So I always try to remember that."_

 _"Well then, when you yourself are suffering and anxious to admit it, ask yourself: what would Molly do? How do_ I _learn to cross this next minefield?"_

It was advice that had really stuck with him. However, he was now wishing he had discussed the likelihood of a _physical_ manifestation of his anxiety for his wife's wellbeing… because he hadn't been prepared for the events that were to follow.

He had come home from the shops several days later, minding his own business, only to find Molly in their living room, her eyes glazed over as she seemed almost out of herself. He had only been gone a few hours and he struggled to understand what could have resulted in this change. Her breathing was laboured as she leant against the door to the kitchen, seeming to be trying to _lure_ him to her all of a sudden, with a husking voice he hadn't heard her use in so long he had all but forgotten it. It had almost alarmed him, since he had respectfully come to assume no physical relationship with her since their return – besides the odd light-hearted snog. He would hold her through her night terrors and she did the same through his, albeit his were much less frequent. He knew better than to sneak up on her now and would always make sure she knew his touch was coming, because the last thing he wanted was a repeat of the flinches he saw her try to repress when they met up with one or two of Two Section the previous day. It had been her first time out of the house since her first therapy session when she had suffered with heavy anxiety on the journey home alone. Since then, she appeared to have developed a fear of venturing outdoors, particularly if it was dark. Charles understood, having seen plenty of PTSD symptoms in his time, and so tried his best to be patient. Now his wounds were beginning to mend enough for him to not need her waiting on him, he was finding it a little more difficult to cope with. Thankfully, Jackie had returned a few days ago and came over while Charles had gone out to keep Molly company.

Therefore, to return and find his wife dazed, appearing almost drunk in her level of contentment and... physical distraction, he couldn't help but be concerned more than he was aroused. She had kissed him and spoke filthily in his ear as she pushed him down on the sofa, her clothing askew already as though she had been trying to dress or undress herself in a terrible hurry. It reminded him of the first time she had gotten drunk and come home to him, her hands so eager to touch him but her limbs were clumsy and her tongue was particularly loose. Her eyes hung lazily and her breathing came in pants as her hands had been restlessly trying to yank at his shirt.

"Are you drunk?" He had asked, but he knew that she couldn't be. There was no wine to be seen around them and she was not the kind of person to drink in the middle of the day. She had laughed, a loud unceremonious cackle that was synonymous with her being intoxicated.

"No." Even this simple word was breathed in a manner of flirtatious and outweighs sexuality he had all but forgotten in the months they had been apart. "Jackie may have left me some special tea, though."

His eyebrows had shot upward as he had tried his best not to laugh out loud. "I'm sorry–– _what?_ You _are_ drunk! _"_

She hadn't been, as it turned out; not in the conventional sense. Jackie _had_ arrived however with a container of some very special herbal tea remedies for anxiety that she had picked up on her travels with Molly in mind. Charles had always assumed such 'aphrodisiac' qualities in products were bullshit, but as he watched his wife visibly pine for him so forcefully that it was almost comical, he had been faced with the reality that he may well have been wrong in this assumption. Gone was the quiet, nervous, removed woman he had been living with and in her place was a thoroughly intoxicated, eager and soft woman with fire in her loins.

He was suddenly reminded of a rather intimate topic he had somehow been tricked into discussing by Doctor Kahn. He had arrived at the session convinced, rather arrogantly, that it would be a breeze. He had done enough post-action sessions like this, what with being shot and almost killed on his last active service tour. He thought he knew how to trick them into leaving him alone and signing on the dotted line where needed within one session. He arrived and was ever polite, but somewhat blasé and within ten minutes it had been clear to him that Doctor Kahn wasn't going to take it from him. She had raised her eyebrows as he had said he was 'doing fine', smiling as she said was pleased to hear it.

"It is a surprise though, considering that you have just lived through," she added, her soft, polite vernacular clearly implying that she knew he was holding back from her.

"Yes, well, I'm home now." It was the same old jargon every soldier returning home would say. "My job now is to help Molly – with, well, you know."

"And what about you? If Captain James is busy carrying for one of his men... then who is looking out for him?"

This conversation suddenly returned to him a week later, as Molly straddled him and had begun grinding into his jean-clad crotch with the density and velocity of a woman on a mission. He had ground his teeth, hissing loudly at the sudden pressure and friction on his intimate anatomy, which hadn't been stimulated in this way in months. He tried his hardest to keep his mind on what was happening, until suddenly his racing inner monologue reminded him that this had come from nowhere. Was this what she really wanted? What if she was racing into something she was not ready for? Was this what _he_ wanted? For their first time in months, the first time since he had lay, being dehydrated to hear death, unable to think of how much he had taken her for granted, to be a quickie on the sofa? After all, the last time someone had been inside her body, it had been against her will…

As quickly as the thought entered his mind, it doused him in what felt like ice cold water.

Taking in the far away look on her face as she took her pleasure, eyes closed to the ceiling, from the friction between them, he was struct by how completely oblivious she was, even to the fact he was sat awkwardly frozen, staring at her.

"Molly, I can't believe I'm saying this but––I'm not sure this is the best idea," he began, trying to slow her movements. It was as though she barely heard him, as she just laughed and opened her eyes, her hips still circling devilishly against him.

"We both know you don't mean that."

But just like that, the seed of doubt had been planted. No matter how sultry her voice or how enticing the view, he couldn't relax. He felt as though he was a schoolboy and he was about to get caught committing the worst of offences at any moment. The faint promise of an erection in his jeans had all but disappeared as he tried his best to appease her, letting her kiss his neck and tug at his shirt. However, as she made a move for his crotch, he grabbed at her hands.

"Molly. We shouldn't do this now. You're not––It's just a bit soon, for both of us."

Again, she smirked at him, not taking him seriously, which left him all the more cold and detached under her desperate attempts to arouse him.

"What you on about, Bossman––? You do talk bollocks, s'times. C'mon." The whispers against his skin made him shudder as they brought back memories of better times, when not the Taliban nor God himself could have stopped him from losing himself in her for hours on end, without a single hesitation. " _Fuck me,_ Charlie," she would whisper, just as she whispered now, and it took everything in Charles' psyche not to push her off him within the instant, because the memory of better times sudden gave him such clarity; _this_ was not how this was supposed to feel.

"I can't," he said gently, realising in all his own mind that his body had well and truly extracted its participation in the situation. He didn't have to look down at his crotch to know he well and truly meant it. His face flushed hot with the discomfort and embarrassment of his confession. "Molly, I can't. You're still working through stuff. We need to talk about––."

"No, no more talking." She huffed and managed to undo his shirt, wagering dropping kisses on the skin she exposed.

" _Yes, Molly._ Jesus, I can't make love to you while you're off your head––!"

"—Oh, for fucks sake – not everything has to be able 'makin' love', Charles! Sometimes people just _fuck!"_

The mockery in her words hit him like a fist to the chest.

They were both stunned into silence for a moment, both trying to catch their breath somehow. Prior to that moment, he would have been willing to appease her, or at least _try,_ because she had done nothing wrong but perhaps rush to claim back her sexuality, which had been taken from her by force anyway, so her anxious hurry was understandable. But her choice of words stung and he reeled from what an unexpected hit they were to an evidently very exposed nerve.

Pushing her off had been easy as he made a break for their bedroom, needing some room. The furnace in his chest flared as he was left smouldering and questioning with just how it was that they got _here_ , staring at each other with twin guarded eyes, dark with the opaque smoke of defensiveness when just an hour ago, he had thought he would be returning from the shops to a quiet night in.

"I'm all too aware of that, Molly," he threw back, his voice showing just how exhausted he was; flashes of the monster who had chosen to fuck Molly against her will yet again intruding into his consciousness. "But forgive me if I'm not really sure ' _fucking_ ' will solve our current problems."

The horror and self abhorrence on Molly's face threw him backward but he could not bring himself to comfort her, his own discomfort far too much for him to swim through. She was stood against the wall of their bedroom, her arms wrapped defensively around her middle as she tried her best to breathe through sudden tears.

"You don't want me."

It wasn't a question, but a statement, weak and desolate.

Instantly, his eyes squeezed shut as his own frustration warped and swelled in his gut at her inability to _believe_ in her own worth. Furious with her wood-headed assumptions, Charles couldn't help but let out a mighty growl from his throat and slam his hand down on the pillow beside him, making Molly jump. "For fucks sake, you _know_ that's not what this is!" He was on his feet now, pacing pointlessly towards the door and back again despite his partially nakedness. "You don't think this is _just_ as fucking awful, conflicting, fucking _embarrassing_ for me as it is for you?! At this point, Molly, it isn't really about choice." His chest was tight with the weight of his own shame as he struggled not to look down as his thoroughly inadequate and lifeless private anatomy with derision and despair.

"Well, I just don't know what I'm _supposed_ to think when my husband can't even _look_ at me, never mind get a stiffy, when all I'm trying to do is finally have sex with him for the first time in bloody _months – and all_ after some Scottish _caveman_ shoved his penis inside me against my will _––!"_ Her face crumpled under the words, her hands shaking as she bowed her head under the strain of the tears that fell slowly from her eyes.

"––Molly, please! Don't! _Jesus_!" He winced before he could stop himself, his whole frame tightening as though wound like a spring at her crass but all too tame description of what happened to her. He knew the minute he scolded her that he shouldn't have, but he just could not stomach the very thought of the details. In honestly, he hadn't be ready to hear it, despite all his talk of _talking._

"See! You're all for 'talking' until I actually fucking try!" Her protests were becoming more and more hysterical, which in itself was very unlike her. Yes, she cried easily, but she never wailed in this way. Frustrated, Molly threw her hands down as they came to strike the front of her bare thighs, the should harsh and sudden as it bounced off the walls of their bedroom. "––and now you won't let me _touch_ you either?" Her breath catches in her throat. "I'm _that_ girl now., ain't I The girl who was raped that no one will touch with a fucking barge pole! May as well get out a fuckin' banner printed!"

The 'R' word fell between them so quickly it took a moment for them both to stomach it. Using the word made it feel real, like peeling back a dressing on a bleeding wound for the first time, afraid of the sight that might like beneath.

 _"_ I am _telling_ you," he replied finally, his voice quiet but hard – reminiscent of his impatient Captain voice. "If you say that shit one more time––! That's _not––!"_

 _"Then, tell me why, Charles!_ You can't even _look_ at me!"

 _"_ Because I can't do it, _okay?!_ I _can't. How_ can I _possibly_ get aroused when I can think of is how _He_ _used_ this _wonderful_ beautiful thing we do...to _hurt_ you in a way I can't even _comprehend?"_ When he looked up at her now, her face is bleak as though he had told her her world was one big lie. "I _just…_ don't think rushing through our first time back together will help you." He hurried to explain, but each word felt less and less worth its weight. "I don't want you to wake up tomorrow and look at me like…I took advantage of how…" He couldn't look at her as he tried to find the right words, because while he could hardly call her ' _broken',_ she wasn't exactly whole in that moment either.

"It's ain't for you to decide!" She sobbed angrily, though she was beginning to deflate, all signs of her earlier physical distraction gone. "It's _my_ body––!"

––Yeah and mine is _mine_ and I'm not just your—your _sex toy_ , for fucks sake. I am your _husband_ and I deserve to be treated like one, not some faceless booty call – no matter how insecure you feel!"

He had no idea where that remark had come from inside him, but it seemed to stun her into silence as she gnawed her bottom lip in the way that he knew meant she was distressed. She looked dumbfounded momentarily, staring at him closely despite her swollen, itchy eyes. He wanted to grab the words back, reach into the gaping space between them and stuff them back down his throat for the way they made her look so lost. But at the same time, he knew he could not. He would never have said them so harshly if he could have the moment back… but he also was not sure he would take their sentiment back altogether if he had the choice.

Then, her features crumpled as something clicked. Suddenly on her feet, she moved woodenly to their en-suite bathroom. Her breathing was increasing in velocity with every fumbled step until she fell against the doorframe. Instantly, he rose, speeding to catch her without thought for his own sore body, moving entirely thanks to an ingrained reflex beat into him not only by a career in the Army but also thanks to his time as a father.

"Oh, _shit_ ," she wept breathlessly, though no new tears surfaced, falling against the wall for support. "Oh, my god, Charlie, oh my _god––I'm so sorry––!_ " She was shattered, rocked to the core by the very prospect that she had indirectly made him feel similar to way _she_ had; like he did not have a say in what was being done to his body. The shame in ballooned in her chest and sucked the oxygen from her lungs as she gritted her teeth at the tears of fury that streamed down her cheeks.

A sharp crack suddenly bounced off the cream tiled walls and made Charles' heart lurch. The side of her face and palm of her hand were suddenly flushed with an intense heat; she had struck herself, haphazard, unaimed and furious, across the side of her own face. "So––fucking–– _stupid!"_ Unseeing, she did it again across her other ear, her body ringing with the catharsis of taking her fury out on something tangible.

" _Woah! Hey_ , hey, _easy! Easy!"_ he ordered instantly, at her side in three easy strides, taking her wrists in his strong hands before she could hit herself again. She automatically fought against his hold, chest heaving with ragged sobs. "It's alright," he cooed, lowering himself to hold her, gently and careful not to grip her too hard, the fire in his chest entirely gone as he watched her battle her own, which in itself was so very rare. She was usually so _sunny_ , his beautiful wife; so full of life and blind, cheeky optimism. It jarred him to the point of being disturbed to see her so distressed and emotionally haywire. He could be burning an entire forest worth of life inside him with fury, but one teardrop spilled from Molly and he would always feel the anger dampen almost entirely. His chest heaved as though he had been jogging, but he gulped it down, determined to be her constant and not further source for her panic. "Just take a breath," he whispered, gulping hard to keep his voice sound, level and calm, despite the fact that inside he was panicking. He had never seen Molly like this before, not even when Smurf had died. He couldn't admit it, but it had thrown him.

 _"What has he done to me, Charlie?"_

Her tiny whisper made him want to bulldoze the whole world in rage.

"He's hurt you, injured you, but that's _all_. There's nothing _wrong_ with you, Molly… You're just hurting and trying to find normal again. It's all anyone would do."

She made a 'humph' sound against his bare chest, evidently not expecting him to reply, though she seemed to bask in the contact against her cheek as she nuzzled him shyly. There was a long moment of quiet between them and Charles could feel the awkwardness begin to creep in as neither of them had addressed the elephant in the room.

"Are you––?"

"––I'm _okay_ ," he reassured instantly, his fingers reaching to run through the hair that had come undone all about her face. "I think I just…" _I think I just might be having erectile dysfunction because I'm such a bloody worry guts over you._ "I just can't let myself take pleasure from you when you're…when we've not spent time discussing what it will mean." Her body was near feverish under his hands, which was unusual because it was usually _he_ that got stick from _her_ for being 'so bleedin' warm'. She was trembling with the sobs that had subsided but also something else – perhaps a side effect of the bloody tea, he thought.

"Why the tea?" He asked conversationally as he let on just how perplexed he was, his lips pressed firm into crown of her head. "I'm assuming Jackie doesn't make a habit of carrying Arabian home remedies around."

Molly limply wriggled her wrists out of his hold, leaning back as the strong bracket of his arm came to brace behind her. When she dare meet his eye, her face grew even hotter than it already was with bashfulness he usually only saw in her when he caught her being romantic.

"It wasn't just the tea," she confessed then. "She gave me a packet of them 'Gold Max' pills too – and _bleedin' Nora_ do they _work,_ by the way!"

He chuckled to stop himself from looking as painfully intrigued as he most definitely felt on the inside, making a mental note to look up said mystery pills at a later date.

She carried on, oblivious; too worried he was judging her. "I just wanted – _It's loony and I probably need lockin' up –_ but I just _thought_ that maybe if it _could_ make me relax then _maybe_ it would… just make me _forget_ for a while." Her voice was so very small as she sought out his eyes. His large hand moved to stroke her cheek, pink and hot from where her palm had struck it. "I just wanted to be with you again, _that_ way, for it to be like it always was. I'm so sick of bein' afraid."

"It will be," he assured, because it was all he could do. He himself _had_ to believe it. "And as much as I appreciate that you just wanted to try so much... I don't think we need any herbal assistance, next time."

" _I won't_ maybe, but who knows 'bout you, old man," she retorted, though this time she snorted with sarcastic derision, sticking her tongue out at him inches from his face to make sure he knew she meant no real offence. Instantly, he reached as though he's going to grab it as it peeped through her lips. He is instantly both pacified and thrilled by the laugh it triggered from her.

"Cheeky cow," he mumbled, already distracted again by just the act of looking at her, his thumb tracing and retracing her temple and down the curve of her heart-shaped jaw. She sniffed hard, rubbing the back of her hand over her nose unceremonious trying to get rid of the tail end of her tears. Catching her eye again, they both shared a gentle smile now, as though they both suddenly realised they were sat on the bathroom floor, half undressed.

"I didn't mean a single word I said and I really am so fucking sorry," she said quickly. "I ain't even sure why I bloody said it – or did it. You _know_ I'm bloody mad about sex with you of any kind and I ain't never meant to—."

Leaning down slowly so that they could barely look into each other's eyes any longer without going cross-eyed entirely, Charles left a single, lingering kiss on her lips, willing her apology away.

"—At the risk of sounding like an arrogant cock... I am well aware of that fact. But, it's good to hear." Despite the fact he insisted on this blasé tone, he knew by the knowing look in her eye that she wasn't buying it. Deep down, he couldn't help but feel relief to hear her say it; especially considering that a few moments ago, his manhood had all but malfunctioned under the pressure of wanting to do right by her.

"Yeah, well. I was just _sayin_ '," she said softly; a classic Molly Dawes catch phrase. Standing up, she reached down to help him. "No need to comment on the volume of my orgasms. It's not like I can _help it_."

Grinning wolfishly, Charles had to bite down on his lip to keep from provoking her further; his memory was all too eager to provide all the wonderful sensor material in proof of said fact. "Oh, Mrs James," he sighed, smug but also weary with the weight of his sudden desire, moving to follow her back into the cozy warm of their bedroom. "That I _do_ know."

As they both tidied up the visual traces of their argument – strewn cushions and ruffled sheets – it seemed to also tidy their minds a litte, separating from the grating, unintentionally barbarous remarks they had made in the face of hurt and shame. They then settled down together in their freshly made bed, both still half undressed. Charles was soothed by the soft feel of her, no matter how many times he held her. What he loved most however was how she insisted on holding him back just as hard, her arm locked around his middle. His ribs ached furiously from all the sudden movement and strain, almost burning, but he ignored them, which was not hard to do. The discomfort was nothing compared to two weeks before and each day they were a little less angry. Her bare shoulder lay bare and exposed and he leaned over to kiss it unconsciously, at which Molly let out a mournful, frustrated sigh.

"Stupid tea," she muttered, burying her face into the little dip of his collarbone like a petulant teenager, triggering a bubbling rumble from deep in his aching chest. It didn't escape his notice that her fingers were restless, tracing hot patterns on his lower back in the way he often did to her... in particular when he was trying to entice her into intimate relations.

"I know what you're doing," he murmured dryly, wriggling his eyebrows at her.

Molly shrugged against the sheets, rolling backward enough to look him in the eye with her best wide eyes that said, 'I don't know what you're talking about'. "What? Cuddling?"

"Cuddling, hm?" He could help but smile as he pulled her as close as possible, delighting in the way she wriggled so their were precisely eye to eye despite their height difference. Leaning into the space between them, he kissed her gently on her nose. "You know, Molly, if it's an _orgasm_ you're after... well, that's easily solved."

He knew by now how to read her by the look in her eyes. They had always been like wide open, forest green journals of her innermost musings and secrets. Looking at her now as she bit hear lip in indecision, he could see the need simmering there, but also the struggle to avoid judgement... and something much darker. He could almost predict what she was thinking: _I'm not supposed to want this... but god, I need to feel normal and good again._

Making the decision easy for her and spurred on by the racing of his own heart rate, Charles gave her the look that he knew enticed her: loud conversation spoken from his eyes and not much else. He didn't touch her further but allowed her to move into him slowly, which she did, before laying onto her back while he remained on his side.

"I just thought it might make me finally get some proper kip, for one bleedin' night at least," she excused limply, though Charles did not need to hear it. They both knew her explanation was, at most, a product of her own internalised shame and in the least, a stalling technique. Looking her over, he could see the tell-tale signs of anxiety without having to try very hard; her breathing was shallower, her chest rising and falling faster, her hands wringing against her stomach, tugging at the vest she wore self consciously. Molly had never been nervous about sex, or anything related to it, in the entire time he had known her, with the exception of when she had admitted to him on their first night together that she had never actually managed to _enjoy_ sexual exploits performed on her until that day. It had flawed him that, in all of Molly's rather extensive sexual history, she had never once understood the pleasure that could and _should_ come with such an act, and therefore went years barely understanding _why_ people were so obsessed with it _._ She had done it to begin with for attention, validation, to be rebellious. Then, as she got older and the men still didn't get anymore interested in even checking to make sure she enjoyed herself or noticing when she didn't, she told him she had assumed that there must have been something wrong with how she was made and, by the tender age of twenty – the age she had been when they met, no less – she had resigned herself to a life of thoroughly dissatisfying, orgasm-less shags.

Charles struggled even now not to feel like the smuggest bastard on the planet when he thought back on how wrong he had proven her to be about that.

"Please touch me," she whispered, her cheeks flushed. He pretended not to feel the way his stomach leapt at the tone she used. "I don't know if I'll even be able to not flinch and run away…" She cut herself off. "I know I was a wanker just now, but do you think you could try––?"

Charles couldn't help it by then; he _had_ to laugh. He laughed so hard it made his ribs creak and protest against the pressure, but it felt too cathartic for him to even notice the pain. Molly protested, hitting him with considerable force across the arm at his reaction, though one look at her told him she was only put out because _she_ was trying her hardest not to laugh at herself.

"It ain't funny!" He managed to sober himself enough to consider what she was actually asking… and then he felt guilty for laughing. She just looked at him, knowing her lip anxiously. "If you're going to laugh at me––!"

"––No, sweetheart. Sorry! _Fuck––_ it's just––." Biting back another chuckle, he took her face in his hand as he leaned over her, pressing a slow kiss against her unmoving lips; the safest of apologies. "It's the way you suddenly feel like you have to _ask_ that's amusing. You're my _wife_ ," he whispered, making sure she looked him in the eye. "You shouldn't be embarrassed about this… or have to drink some Afghan bloody _tea._ It's _me,_ Molly."

At that, she did smile guiltily, seeming to suddenly see the somewhat ridiculous side, too. "When did we become such a mess?" She sighed, trying to make the words a chuckle, though her question seemed to guard much a bleaker question he was sure they both had been pretending was not there.

"If you think it'll help," Charles continued, ignoring the soft rhetorical question and getting back to the task in hand. His pulse had already begun to quicken again silently, so strong he could feel it in his throat, "then, of course, I'll touch you until the cows come home, as long as it's what you want."

Molly relaxed into the mattress then, guiding his hot hand to her sternum, her breastbone, where it stalled and his fingers began drawing their usual tantalising trailing patterns. His eyes never left hers, not even when she allowed his hand beneath the cotton of her vest top to hold the breast beneath, and somehow that made the sudden revival of chemistry between them all the more _intoxicating_. Charles held his breath to begin with, afraid that he might overstep in a way he had not been since his very early days with girls as a teenager. But, with each subtle, gentle movement against the sensitive skin of her torso and stomach alone, he was struck by how much more erotic these simple moves felt than anything he could remember in the entire time he had known sex with Molly. He told himself it must be how deprived he was, having just spent three long months away from her, but by the way his gut pulled simply by the reemergence of wonder and joy on her features, or the way he almost quivered every time she exhaled the tiniest of whimpers when he tweaked one nipple, he knew it had to be something much more profound.

He steered clear of the target area he would usually launch towards, unsure of her new limits and, in all honesty, enjoying her newfound sensitivity to even the simplest of his caresses. Her eyes remained on his, only blinking out of necessity, with each new manipulation. The intensity of their locked gaze alone banished any trace of his earlier... _problem_ ; his jeans were now uncomfortably tight.

"You," he whispered into the narrow gap between them, a thumb tracing her temple and hairline. "You are… just… _something else,_ Molly James." She swallowed hard under his praise, remaining uncharacteristically quiet as she looked up at his face as though searching for something. "You're exquisite," he whispered, recalling it was the word he had reportedly repeated to her the first night they spent together. "And so brave. I am in awe of you."

The sheer sweetness of his words seemed to make her close her eyes. "Please, Charles," she began, suddenly sounding far away as she could not stomach his compliments.

" _No,"_ he denied, quiet but firm. "You _are."_ Pressing feather-light kisses to her face, he revelled in the sigh that rose from her in response. "And I will spend the rest of my life trying to prove it to you if that's what you need, because you're my wife and that's my job."

When he finally sank his hand south, he watched her more intently than he was pretty sure he ever had, bar perhaps their days in Afghanistan. He paused, about to ask for permission aloud when she gave him a minuscule nod, taking a shaking breath in as she went to guide his flat palm towards its goal. He made a point of caressing the spot just inward of her bare protruding hipbone, knowing that it was a particularly sensitive spot that had been known to cause her hips to jackknife off of the mattress. Catching her own breath in her throat, Molly strained her neck to expose her throat, an unconscious request. He was all too eager to oblige, having taken it upon himself since their very night together to make it a particular area of study once he had witnessed how riled it got her. Pressing delicate kisses along the column of her throat, he was unable to stop himself from smiling against her velvet skin. He wanted to cry out that he loved her, over and over, but in moments like this, so fragile and overwhelming, he could feel the weight of such intensity, and therefore in turn his wife's vulnerability, on his chest like steel-toed regulation six lace-holes. Navigating all of this left him feeling like a fish out of water, a feeling he was unaccustomed to by now as an Officer in Her Majesty's Armed Forces, but for Molly, he would flounder through it with a smile on his face. It was the least he could do.


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Hey y'all,_

 _So, here's Molly's side of recent events... I hope it lives up._

 _Massive props to one of my favourite songwriters for the inspiration this week. I've decided that if CJ were to write songs about Molly... this guy's music would be it. His name is Joshua Hyslop: definitely take a listen for this chapter and any others in future to get in the mood:_ watch?v=u6qYCQ8UKdk

 _The song referenced below is a particular focus for this chapter._

 _Thank you for all your reviews. I LOVE them, especially the chatty ones. I love hearing from you so I know I'm hitting the right notes and knowing what you want to see if always good!_

 _LOVE & HUGS, _

_Stars Walk Backward_

* * *

 _"When it all starts coming_  
 _When it all starts crumbling down_  
 _As the water through a canyon_  
 _It weaves and waters all around.._

 _I will take the least resistance._  
 _I will keep my eyes on the ground._  
 _It's been a while since we've spoken,_  
 _'Cause dear, I haven't got the words right now._

 _I'm falling_ f _or answers_  
 _To questions_ t _hat I cannot face_ ;

 _the reason_ _I always look away._

 _In the middle of this moment_  
 _If we should rise and fall again._  
 _If uncertainty surrounds you_  
 _And you cannot seem to catch your breath:_

 _Oh remember our intentions_  
 _How we left alright,_  
 _And hoped for the best..._

 _We are weathered, we are broken..._  
 _But we haven't reached the end yet._

 _I'm falling_ f _or answers_  
 _To questions_ t _hat I cannot face_ ;

 _the reason_ _I always look away._ _"_

 **–– _"Falling"_ \- Joshua Hyslop**

* * *

 **XVIII**

* * *

Molly was not sure why she drank tea Jackie had given her right away, or took the Gold Max pill on top of that, considering that she had given it to her with the pretext of, 'for if and when you are ready'. She wasn't sure she was ready, but she figured that if she could get herself I'm the mood, then maybe she could get herself over her new fear. Molly had thanked her, having spent the previous twenty minutes confessing to Jackie how crippled she was by fear , but also a bitter, inward-facing frustration.

"Are you telling me you're sexually frustrated and trying to find a way to get back to shagging your husband, Molly Dawes?" Jackie had asked, smirking and trying and succeeding to make her friend laugh. Suddenly bashful, Molly had spluttered out an excuse.

"Yeah, well, I'm not sure I blame you," Jackie said, the two sharing saucy, knowing smiles. "I can only imagine how hard it must be to try and get past what happened."

"I just, I can't get it out my nut. It's like I'm on tour and I'm like some wounded animal lookin' out for the next kick to come. It's even made me afraid of the dark!" Jackie hugged her close almost naturally as they both took a break from nursing their mugs of tea, humming understandingly. "And Charlie? He still looks at me like I'm made of glass since what happened the other day and it's driving me bananas." She had felt a sudden pang of helpless longing them, thinking of how differently he had once looked at her. "I just... I can stand if the lads look at me like that, because, well, they're bloody kids, but not _Charlie..."_ She struggled with the words. "He's... _everything_ ," she had sighed, rubbing her eyes. "I can't have him look at me like this."

"Well, have you talked about it?"

Molly's heart sank, once again feeling disappointed in herself. "He tried, after I saw the psych doctor, but I just... I feel like I'm _three steps down from Plaistow_!"

Jackie's bemused expression made her laugh; a welcome release from the constant pressure Molly could feel building in her throat to cry or scream. "Sorry, Moll, but you'll 'ave to elaborate on that bit of slang!"

"Barking mad," she giggled. "Honestly, you northerners think you speak English, eh?"

Jackie had then confessed that she had foreseen Molly may once again fall victim to PTSD and that she therefore went searching in the markets before she left for home. She had warned her that she had no idea how strong the herbs would be, or that they would even work at all, but that she had it on good authority from the street vendor, but also her aunt, who was a long-time hippie from East Yorkshire, that it would most definitely relax the person who consumed it and that they were not an illegal substance.

That was how it came to be that she lay, slouched against the back of the sofa, gazing at videos of she and Charles on their honeymoon after she had managed to route out the disk from the memory box that she kept underneath her side of the bed, becoming more and more unable to take her eyes off him. Scenes of their road trip through California flashed across the screen, Charles' defined, tanned arms delightfully on display as she filmed him holding the steering wheel of their hired pick-up truck, singing along the radio.

It wasn't sudden, but still it crept up on her; her body wound itself tight like a spring the more she thought about him, the more she gazed at him, appraising the sunny, vibrant visions of him in glorious high definition, memories dredged up from within her mind with each frame that passed. She had found herself wondering how she had gotten so lucky, as though realising just how _beautiful_ her husband was all over again. There was footage of them together on the beach in Oman playing beach ball with Bashira while Charles barbecued with Qaseem. Then there were much more private moments, captured and kept only on this version of the disc for their eyes only after Charles had taken to using his grandfather's older camera to film her gazing at him in her bikini; kissing him in the reflection of their master suite floor-length mirror.

"Mrs Molly James, ladies and gentlemen!" came his slightly tinned voice form the speakers of the television as he had celebrating her eating an obscenely large stack of pancakes in an American diner outside San Fransisco. He was filming her with her mouth full across the table as she flashed him the finger.

By the time Charles had arrived home, she had been so entangled in the silk ribbons of her memories of their honeymoon, thoroughly aroused by the sudden and vivid flashbacks of each night after glorious night that they had had in that three weeks and how he had worshipped her to the point of her either bursting into tears - (which she continuously had to point out to Charles only happened the once) - or being rendered entirely speechless.

When he had walked through the door to the living room, she had barely seen him. Her body hummed by then with a strange kind of energy that felt similar to being drunk but without the foggy mind or misguiding thoughts.

In hindsight, perhaps she should not have practically launched at him, but she had felt almost outside herself suddenly. Her body and mind felt light and free for the first time in weeks, no longer weighed down by anxiety and as a result she felt as though she really did not have a choice but to take the leap.

It had not gone down as she had foreseen, for many reasons. To start with, she had certainly not expected him to suddenly suffer with physical impotence, of all things! She had been unable to take it any other way than personally in the moment, especially when his limp anatomy was coupled with his attempts to put some distance between them and the look of discomfort on his face. Stupidly, she had tried to ignore it, casting him aside in the hope he was just toying with her as he so often did.

He hadn't been, of course.

She's filled with shame when he tells her to 'Stop it!', thrown back into the horrific moment when she had said much the same thing in the recent past. However, shame and pride were a toxic mix, so she did not withdraw the way she realised later should should have. After all, it was not in Molly Dawes-James' nature to back down from a fight; especially one she usually won.

"No, no more talking." She had huffed, focusing her efforts on undoing his shirt, dropping kisses on the skin she exposed greedily as she confidently moved to persuade him.

" _Yes, Molly._ Jesus, I can't make love to you while you're off your head––!"

She had always been far too proud to give in, no matter what the cost, so she had taken offence automatically to the very insinuation that he thought he knew better what was good for her more than she knew herself; it was the grass-root of many of their historic disagreements. Now, it proved to be an accidentally catalyst. This rejection _must_ have been a direct reflection of his desire - or rather, _lack_ thereof - for _her._ That was the only conclusion that made any sense to her, so she had snapped.

"—Oh, for fucks sake – not everything has to be able 'makin' love', Charles! Sometimes people just _fuck!"_ she had shouted, surprising both of them.

It was childish and paranoid... but then, Molly _was_ those things - at her worst.

She watched his face do that _thing_ it always did that made her feel like the smallest and most horrific human being in the world, an assemblage of emotions all at once, beginning with shock, then hurt and embarrassment before finally settling into what many would consider a neutral expression, unless of course they knew better. This was his stern face that actually meant he was repressing a fire beneath the surface.

"I'm all too aware of that, Molly," he threw back, the words cast into the space between them with what she would almost have called a sneer, had his eyes not shined with something else, something much less malicious. "But forgive me if I'm not really sure ' _fucking_ ' will solve our current problems."

Her eyes clamped shut at the word, sounding so harsh and so _very_ alien coming from the lips of a man whom she knew had not been emotionally detached enough to 'fuck' a woman, in the figurative sense, in his life - not even when he thought he _had_. He no doubt thought fucking was all those occasions when they had had angry sex, pretending to hate each other when really they were simply fuelled with the adrenaline of a fierce row. He no doubt thought fucking was all the times that she pulled him into a sexual game she liked, where he would leave his uniform on and so would she... and she would call him 'Sir' and he would punish her for it against the wall of the bathroom. She had no doubt that he thought he knew what that word meant... but he was a beautiful, gentle, thorough and deeply thoughtful soul, so she knew he didn't.

Truly, to 'fuck', Molly knew all too well _actually_ meant not to care or _want to care_ about the _person_ beneath you, beyond the body they resided in; to take and give physically without any entangling of the threads of your soul with that of the other person. She had been a pro at such behaviour throughout her teenage years after Artan, the only boy she had ever really appreciated in that time, had made a joke of her that is.

No, she _knew_ Charles. While he was capable of intense lust and physicality, he was not a man who would ever be able to 'fuck' a woman, because it implied being passive, mentally at least... which was why her comment surprised them both, because he was not the man who would allow her to use him, whether that be to punish herself or simply as a form of therapy. He was not the man who would step aside. He was not the man who would let her self destruct. She did not marry _that_ man.

Deep down, somewhere, she knew all this and yet, she could not stop her mouth from running.

"You don't want me."

It did not come out as a question, but a statement, designed to test his reaction, she supposed, though also to throw how he was making her feel back at him. His eyes squeezed shut as she watched and pretended that she did not flinch as a mighty growl rose from his throat and he slammed his hand down on the pillow beside him.

"For fucks sake, you _know_ that's not what this is!" Then he was on his feet, pacing pointlessly towards the door and back again despite his partially nakedness. It intimidated her like it never had before, the strength in his body. It was almost as though she was noticing it for the first time... or perhaps it was just her own fragility she was noticing. She could not put a finger on which.

"You don't think this is _just_ as fucking awful, conflicting, fucking _embarrassing_ for me as it is for you?! At this point, Molly, it isn't really about choice."

Perhaps he had not realised that his choice of words seemed to cement her doubts, or perhaps he did, but she could not help but rise to it. "Well, I just don't know what I'm _supposed_ to think when my husband can't even _look_ at me, never mind get a stiffy, when all I'm trying to do is finally have sex with him for the first time in bloody _months."_ Her face crumpled under the words, her hands shaking as she bowed her head under the strain of the tears that fell slowly from her eyes. She was furious with herself for crying; she did not want him to pity her now. She was frustrated that he thought he could speak on her behalf, dictate what she could or could not do with her body. But mostly, she was furious with him for giving food to her deepest, darkest self-doubts. " _– and all_ after some Scottish _caveman_ shoved his penis inside me against my will _––!"_

"––Molly, please! Don't! _Jesus_!" He winced and she wanted to scream at him. If you can't even hear about it, h _ow do you think it feels to be the one it actually happens to?_

"See! You're all for 'talking' until I actually fucking try!" Her protests were becoming more and more hysterical as she threw her hands down as they came to strike the front of her bare thighs, the should harsh and sudden as it bounced off the walls of their bedroom. "––and now you won't let me _touch_ you either?" Her breath catches in her throat as the words that had been repeating to herself in her nightmares came bubbling up like vomit. "I'm _that_ girl now, ain't I? The girl who was raped that no one will touch with a fucking barge pole! May as well get out a fuckin' banner printed!"

She didn't realise she had said _that_ word at first until she watched his face go pale with a look of pity, intense sadness and some kind of quiet fury.

 _"_ I am _telling_ you," he replied finally, his voice quiet but hard – reminiscent of his impatient Captain voice. "If you say that shit one more time––! That's _not––!"_

She had lost all of her patience entirely. _"Then, tell me why, Charles!_ You can't even _look_ at me!"

 _"_ Because I can't do it, _okay?!_ I _can't. How_ can I _possibly_ get aroused when I can think of is how _He_ used this _wonderful_ beautiful thing we do...to _hurt_ you in a way I can't even _comprehend?"_ He hurried to explain, but each word felt less and less worth its weight. "I don't want you to wake up tomorrow and look at me like…I took advantage of how…" He couldn't look at her as he tried to find the right words and it made her feel utterly useless... damaged... like a burden.

"It's ain't for you to decide!" She sobbed angrily; all symptoms of arousal well and truly buried as she now shook with anger. "It's _my_ body––!"

––Yeah and mine is _mine_ and I'm not just your—your _sex toy_ , for fucks sake. I am your _husband_ and I deserve to be treated like one, not some faceless booty call – no matter how insecure you feel!"

With an audible huff, the acute sharpness of his retort left her heaving for breath as she tried to compute this new information. His face was smooth with the blatant disconnect he usually tried to adopt when she had upset him, but it didn't reach his eyes, which were pinched in tell-tale distress. Her cheeks were now hot with shame as she kept hearing the allegation he had just made as it continued to bounce around her skull, trying to make sense of it. "You...?" she tried to speak, to clarify what he meant in a desperate bid to convince herself she had heard him wrong, but deep down, she knew he hadn't. She had made him feel like she was using him...as her _sex toy._

Tears began to consume her, quick and silent as she felt panic take root and multiply in her gut. She was on her feet before she really realised it, far too embarrassed and _furious_ to look at him. Her breathing was increasing in velocity with every fumbled step until she fell against the doorframe, the wood hard against her hipbone that would no doubt leave a bruise.

 _He doesn't want you... because he feels used... Just like you did._

She wept breathlessly, though no new tears surfaced. Trying her hardest to get away from him, she fell against the wall for support. "Oh, my god, Charlie _––!_ " She was shattered, feeling completely rotten that she had indirectly made him feel similar to way _she_ had; like he did not have a say in what was being done to his body. The oxygen seemed to disappear from her lungs as she gritted her teeth to try and back at the tears. Battling a sudden assault of dizziness, she held into the towel rail, woken by it's near burning temperature, though she barely flinched.

Suddenly, it was like she in school again, though she barely was actually _in_ school back then obviously. She had felt invisible and lost, reaching into what looked to be the abyss of future with the realisation that, if she didn't _do_ something, then that would be _it._ She would be destined to become her mother; permanently broke with six little bleeders and no real relationship with her husband besides one that, for the most part, was like looking after yet another kid. She had panicked that night, having fucked off to the pub after witnessing Dave come in _pisshead_ drunk at four in the afternoon, shouting and swearing because there was no dinner ready for him. Thus, she had made her way to the social club alone, one which no longer exists due to its utterly dilapidated state even then, and met with a friend or two for a fag. There had been a group of boys there who had managed to bag themselves some cans and before they knew it, the girls were getting pissed on the swings with them. Molly had had just enough to feel a buzz in the skin, a numbness to her face. What she had not anticipated was that the buzz would also extend to the desire she had long been repressing since she hell, headfirst and clueless, into puberty, a few years before. Her friends had all 'lost it' incredibly early, having always been the rebellious group that didn't give a shit for any kind of rule or recommendation. Molly though, having forever been one for all smoke and no fire, had held back, watching them with a somewhat removed fascination in the same way she remembered watching zoo animals when she was a kid. She had pretended up until the age of fifteen that she thought she was above it all - she has always been so very good at throwing an insult over her shoulder and looking as though she could honestly have not cared any less. In reality however, she had been more and more desperate to try it, _just_ to give her life some substance, some _excitement,_ beyond bunking off school whenever she felt like it. When she thought back on it now, she could barely articulate how it all happened – most likely because she had not been sober enough to ever remember what had happened. Somehow though, with some cans of god-knows-what and a young lad from the estate on the swings, she set herself on a course that would, all too soon, give her a somewhat sworded reputation.

At the time, she didn't care. The teachers generally hated her anyway, with the exception of the nurse and the pastoral care supervisor who both continued to treat Molly like a person despite her age and disinterest and inabilities within schoolwork. The parents of her friends did not engage in parenting enough to care if Molly, the slutty girl, was their friend, perhaps because they were all the same in their youth too. The parents of the good kids bitched about her as though she were some mystical villain with snakes for hair despite the fact they never knew her, or the fact that Molly had never once been unkind to anyone at school, good grades or no grades.

To them, suddenly she had not been a disinterested, far-too-chatty child anymore. Instead, she became very good at getting boys to want her, because she was free-wheeling and smiley and didn't care much of a care in the world, despite the many reasons she should have. Suddenly, she was an underage, council estate teenage girl who had sex.

Suddenly, she became a villain to society.

It was interesting how things changed so quickly for the girls but never did for the boys. It wasn't until years later when Artan tried to push her around despite _him_ being the one to cheat on _her_ that she really began to realise what misogyny was and how often it cropped up in her life. Until Artan, she didn't care for any of them at all, so she was all to eager to make an physical exchange and not keep her end of the bargain, to use them for short-term thrill-seeking gains with no intention of ever texting them again. Men would use her for her physicality, which she had been all to happy to let them do, because in giving her their sexual interest, they did not even realise it, but they each gave her a sense of power and worth unparalleled to anything she had known before.

Ironic, she realised, as she was now reeling from being treated like an object much that same way, of course.

' _Maybe if you weren't such a slut, people weren't gonna be a slut right back to you!'_ The words of the girl Artan cheated with suddenly returned to her, sneering a reminder that people never change. Furious, her pulse hammered in her ears and she growled at herself, throwing up her hands in a desperate attempt for something to punch. There was nothing in the bathroom she could punch, of course, and so, just like that, she struct herself. The side of her face and palm of her hand were suddenly flushed with intense heat as the blood rouse to the assault. "So––fucking–– _stupid!"_ Unseeing, she did it again across her other ear, her body ringing with the catharsis of taking her fury out on something tangible. God, it felt strangely good, she realised, feeling a little less lightly wound with each sharp sting of fresh pain.

Charles was suddenly by her side, taking her wrists in his strong hands before she could hit herself again, his eyes wide and alarmed. His hands were hot and strong and she was taken by surprise at the contact. She had momentarily forgotten he was there.

" _Woah! Hey_ , hey, _easy! Easy!"_ he ordered instantly in a tone that she _wanted_ to hate, because it was soft yet forceful, the kind he employed with her often the first time they had ever been alone together, way back when and she knew it brought out the sentimental in her, no matter the circumstances. "It's alright," he cooed, easing her against his bare chest as her legs seemed to give in a little with sudden intense weariness, before he slowly lowered them both awkwardly to the bath mat. She was crying again, this time audibly, and she could feel the tell-tale signs of catharsis as she began to relax and leave her weight at the mercy of Charles' strong frame. She did not look at him, but kept her face buried against his chest, so ashamed that she felt sick.

. "Just take a breath," he whispered against the top of her head, his hands running over her back and shoulders in large, smoothing circles as through willing her anguish away. She looked down at her palm, flexing it despite the bright, angry pink colour it was becoming, realising she had not idea that she _could_ slap so hard. After all, she had never been on the opposing end of the few se had dished out in her teenage years. Now, she hated the idea of violence, having come face to face with the horrors of war in their haunting, bleak reality. She was shocked still by the memory of how angry she had been; how desperate she had been to just punch _something._

 _"What has he done to me, Charlie?"_ she whispered, raising her eyes for the first time enough to smooth her finger over the scar over his hipbone; a very _real_ reminder of the consequences of mindless violence and why she could not stand it. She was so ashamed of herself for falling into her old ways so easily and all because of something that she could not change... and that _Charles,_ the most precious person in her 'new' life, had somehow managed to be on the other side of it.

He made a very generic, 'Captain' comment in reply - ever the diplomat. There was a long moment of quiet between them after that and Molly felt herself cringing, because she knew that they needed to talk... but she just was not sure she was ready. She was not sure how she would _ever_ be ready.

"Are you––?" she began, looking subtly down at his jeaned crotch.

"––I'm _okay_ ," he reassured instantly, his fingers reaching to run through the hair that had come undone all about her face. She did not even try to keep from leaning into him. "I think I just… I just can't let myself take pleasure from you when you're…when we've not spent time discussing what it will mean." She was trembling with the sobs that had subsided but also the arousal that had been buried and forgotten beneath their anger and frustration. Now things were calm again, she was all _too_ aware of the proximity of their bodies; of his bare chest as his shirt hung open on his shoulders and her bare knees pressed against the inside of his thigh. Silently, she found herself wishing that there was not a thick layer of denim between her and the bare skin of his strong quad muscles. She had always had a thing for his legs; in particular the sight of the light hairs that covered them and left her mouth watering with desire.

"Why the tea?" He asked conversationally, his lips pressed firm into crown of her head. "I'm assuming Jackie doesn't make a habit of carrying Arabian home remedies around."

Molly limply wriggled her wrists out of his hold, leaning back as the strong bracket of his arm came to brace behind her. When she dare meet his eye, her face grew even hotter than it already was. She felt stupid, like a little girl being asked to explain why she stole a biscuit.

"It wasn't just the tea," she confessed then. "She gave me a packet of them 'Gold Max' pills too – and _bleedin' Nora_ do they _work,_ by the way!" Desire rolled in her gut at the memory of _just_ how well the pills had worked and were continuing to. Her nerves seemed to sing with a sense of energy and vibration that she was shocked by. This is the kind of arousal she would usually have had build up over an entire day week on tour, resulting in the final day before a scheduled Skype call being almost a complete write-off as her body seemed to have a one-track mind at the thought of even seeing his face again. "I just wanted – _It's loony and I probably need lockin' up –_ but I just _thought_ that maybe if it _could_ make me relax then _maybe_ it would… just make me _forget_ for a while." His large hand moved to stroke her cheek, pink and hot from where her palm had struck it and she was struck once again at how strong he was, how much power he held in those hands. They were scarred and rough, but his fingers were long, supple and gentle and seemed built for caresses and ghost her face as much as they did for cradling a handgun.

"I just wanted to be with you again, _that_ way, for it to be like it always was." She shivered involuntarily, unable to keep from visualising how they looked on her body in all those videos, holding her with that same careful certainty. "I'm so sick of bein' afraid."

"It will be," he assured, his lips warm against her temple. "And as much as I appreciate that you just wanted to try so much... I don't think we need any herbal assistance, next time."

" _I won't_ maybe, but who knows 'bout you, old man," she retorted, though this time she snorted with sarcastic derision, sticking her tongue out at him inches from his face to make sure he knew she meant no real offence. He reached as though he's going to grab it as it peeped through her lips and she couldn't help but laugh, pleased that he was no longer angry enough to be being cold with her. His thumb was tracing and retracing her temple and down the curve of her heart-shaped jaw, even as she sniffed and rubbed the back of her hand over her nose unceremonious trying to get rid of the tail end of her tears. They both shared a gentle smile, as though they both suddenly realised they were sat on the bathroom floor, half undressed. Molly kept her hand on his chest, reassured by the thud of his steady heartbeat.

"I didn't mean a single word I said and I really am so fucking sorry," she said quickly, never one to be good with apologies. "I ain't even sure why I bloody said it – or did it. You _know_ I'm bloody mad about sex with you of any kind and I ain't never meant to—."

Leaning down, he moved so close that Molly was pretty sure she went cross-eyed trying to keep her eyes on his. He pressed a single, lingering kiss on her lips, willing her apology away. She had to hold in the most mighty of sighs at the sensation.

"—At the risk of sounding like an arrogant cock... I am well aware of that fact," he said, making her want to drop her jaw in shock. "But, it's good to hear." She knew he was pretending to be confident when he tugged at the back of his hair and even more so when he called himself names. "Yeah, well. I was just _sayin_ '," she said softly, opting to make a joke. "No need to comment on the volume of my orgasms. It's not like I can _help it_."

It worked and Molly silently rejoiced in the shit-eating grin he gave her. "Oh, Mrs James," he sighed, following after her. "That I _do_ know."

As they both tidied up the visual traces of their argument – strewn cushions and ruffled sheets – it seemed to also tidy their minds a little, separating from the grating, unintentionally barbarous remarks they had made in the face of hurt and shame. They then settled down together in their freshly made bed, both still half undressed. He now resembled the smaller frame he had when they had met, when he was almost four years younger for a start but also struggling with his injuries. Once he got better however, he became a little obsessed with rebuilding his fitness levels to the point that he far surpassed the size he had been when they first met. He had always been toned and so unbelievably strong, but by the time they married just under year ago, he was visibly much broader with the effort he had put into bulking up, which she had been fascinated to watch over time. Molly let her fingers trace over his frame, noting how much more slender he was than she remembered him before this last tour, after the horrific starvation he was put through.

Instantly, her gut plummeted with guilt as she realised that once again, their day had orientated around her and her new-found _fear._ He had barely seemed to showcase any symptoms beyond the odd nightmare he had suffered, opting to shrug them off the next morning as he always had. She knew if she pushed too hard, he would shut off completely, where she would never reach him. She had seen it happen before, with Smurf of course, and then again when they had their first big bust-up of a domestic. So, here they were: trying to come to terms with the fact that both of them had changed but neither knew quite how.

Her bare shoulder lay bare and exposed and he leaned over to kiss it unconsciously with the ease off someone who had done it a thousand times, which she was certain he must have. Her stomach lurched at the simple gesture and at the sheer innocence and loving nature of it and this time she could not halt the mournful sigh that escaped her. Typical Charles, fanning the flames of sexual frustration into a roaring wildfire with a simple kiss and seeming completely oblivious to it. She muttered, berating the tea as she buried her face into the little dip of his collarbone like a petulant teenager. The muscles way deep down leapt and tightened again at the dark, deep rumble of a laugh that she felt vibrate through his chest. She itched to make him squirm the way he was making her, but she was frightened to make any kind of move at all; an alien sensation for Molly, the once infamous seducer. Her fingers were restless, tracing hot patterns on his lower back in the way he often did to her... in particular when he was trying to entice her into intimate relations.

"I know what you're doing," he murmured dryly, wriggling his eyebrows at her.

Molly felt her pulse leap, thrilled like a teenager at the prospect that he knew she was trying to seduce him, so she shrugged and gave him her best round eyes. "What? _Cuddling_?"

"Cuddling, hm?" She wriggled so their were precisely eye to eye as he pulled his arm around her back, their noses grazing despite their height difference. Leaning into the space between them, he kissed her gently on her nose. "You know, Molly, if it's an _orgasm_ you're after... well, that's easily solved." Charles gave her the look, then; the one that you heard about but were lucky to experience from one person in your lifetime, Molly was sure. It was love with a heady combination of lust and challenge as he refused to look away. It made blood rise to the back of her neck and her chest in a sudden flush of desire, made worse only by the way he seemed to be making a conscious decision not to touch her further than the arm around her middle, keeping them nose to nose. He moved so close that she rolled onto her back and he looked over her, the scrutiny of his silent admiration making her feel all the more bashful about the fact he _knew_ what she wanted, despite all they had just fought about. She didn't want sex, that much she realised, because even if she _had_ been ready, Charles evidently wasn't. It was a fact that she was still trying to get her head around, despite the fact he insisted it wasn't something to be offended by. _Why else would he not want it though, if not because I'm dirty to him now?_ The devil on her shoulder whispered seeds of doubts. Despite this, her body hummed against the will of her mind, which was trying to reason to her better judgement, because Charles was right – the bugger was _always_ right.

"I just thought it might make me finally get some proper kip, for one bleedin' night at least," she excused limply, stalling for something to fill the quiet and break the sizzling chemistry between them. Still though, his warm eyes, the colour of chocolate in the soft light of their bedside lamps, carried on their slow and unashamed appraisal over her. She tried her best to get it together, but her breathing was shallower, her chest rising and falling faster, her hands wringing against her stomach, tugging at the vest she wore self consciously. She was trying to work out _why_ he suddenly made her so nervous. She had not felt this sickly anxious around a half naked man since the first few times they had slept together. She had been shitting herself on the train over and had stressed over underwear and tights or no tights until she thought she had lost it all together. When they had walked into his parents massive mansion, it was cold and she remembered how much she wanted to curse the chill because it made her inward trembling visible. She was so incredibly eager for him, only to be thrown into insecurity when he had whispered so very intimately against her mouth: _"Tell me, Dawesy. Tell me what you like,"_ because little had he known, she had no idea what she _liked._ However, when it had come down to the act itself, settled eye to eye on his antique double bed at Royal Crescent, Molly had had felt entirely at peace and the differences between them had melted away. Being with Charles, in the end, had simply felt like coming home (That is, _after_ the small matter of her never having orgasmed having been dealt with… _twice_. Or was it _three_ times?)

 _God._ She had to bite her lip to keep from groaning aloud. _The third time._

"Please touch me." The words came out in sudden exhale, her cheeks flushed as her mind had wondered back to that very first night. "I don't know if I'll even be able to not flinch and run away…" She cut herself off. "I know I was a wanker just now, but do you think you could try––?"

Suddenly, Charles laughed; actually _threw_ his head back against the pillows and guffawed. It had been so long since she had heard him laugh so hard that it was a great struggle not to instantly laugh with him, but she protested, hitting him with considerable force across the arm. "It ain't funny!" Her cheeks were unbelievably warm now, she no doubt looked like a tomato. She just looked at him, gnawing her lip anxiously as she felt utterly ridiculous for having asked. "If you're going to laugh at me––!"

"––No, sweetheart. Sorry! _Fuck––_ it's just––." Biting back another chuckle, he took her face in his hand as he leaned over her, pressing a slow kiss against her unmoving lips; the safest of apologies. "It's the way you suddenly feel like you have to _ask_ that's amusing. You're my _wife_ ," he whispered, making sure she looked him in the eye. Her stomach tightened at the sincerity she saw there. "You shouldn't be embarrassed about this… or have to drink some Afghan bloody _tea._ It's _me,_ Molly." At that, she did smile guiltily, seeming to suddenly see the somewhat ridiculous side, too. "If you think it'll help," he drawled, pretending to consider his words carefully. Her pulse had already begun to quicken again silently, so strong she could hear it in her ears, "then, of course, I'll touch you until the cows come home, as long as it's what you want."

The anticipation was suddenly simmering in a way she remembered it doing in the beginning, when she had barely been able to look him in the eye or brush past him without losing her breath. She relaxed into the mattress, guiding his hot hand to her sternum, her breastbone, where it stalled and his fingers began drawing their usual tantalising trailing patterns. His eyes never left hers, not even when she allowed his hand beneath the cotton of her vest top to hold the breast beneath, and somehow that made the sudden revival of chemistry between them all the more _intoxicating_. He quivered as she exhaled the tiniest of whimpers when he tweaked one of her nipples, but she pretended she didn't notice, pleased to be seeing his vulnerability again. She keened against the covers, tugging her own shirt to keep from losing control. She tried her hardest to hold in her frustration as he steered clear of the target area he would usually launch towards. Watching him watch _her_ was so erotic, she thought, as his eyes were fixed on her an intense concentration while his fingers draw out burning, tingling trails over her skin that was already so sensitive. A lump rose in her throat and took her by surprise, her fingers flexing against his middle.

"You," he whispered, his breath fanning over her face with the faint scent of his infamous Rosabaya coffee. "You are… just… _something else,_ Molly James." She swallowed hard under his praise, feeling completely dwarfed by all she could never have the words to say. "You're exquisite." She bit back a groan; reminded of the very first time he ever called her that when they had been in a haze of newfound lust. "And so brave. I am in awe of you." The sheer sweetness of his words seemed to make her close her eyes. "Please, Charles," she began, not wanting to feel the discomfort she always felt when he complimented her unnecessarily. It made her feel like a fraud.

" _No,"_ he denied, quiet but firm. "You _are."_ Pressing feather-light kisses to her face, and she almost lost the grip she had on her control. "And I will spend the rest of my life trying to prove it to you if that's what you need, because you're my wife and that's my job." He finally sank his hand south and she gave him a minuscule nod, taking a shaking breath in as she went to guide his flat palm towards its goal. He made a point of caressing the spot just inward of her bare protruding hipbone, knowing that it was a particularly sensitive spot that had been known to cause her hips to jackknife off of the mattress. Catching her own breath in her throat, Molly strained her neck to expose her throat, an unconscious request. He was all too eager to oblige. Pressing delicate kisses along the column of her throat, he made a noise of approval that made her pulse skip so suddenly it was almost painful, especially when coupled with the very first of caresses, no lighter than a lover's breath, against that all important spot.

She thought she would relax into the sensation and it would be like old times, but she found that with each stroke, he gained more confidence and boldness, and she gained more anxiety. Flashes of rougher, paler hands suddenly appeared, only to disappear again; memories of flesh forcing into _flesh—._

 _"—Charlie!"_ She had her hand around his wrist and has forced out his name so fast that it took her a moment to process why he had stopped. Instantly, the relaxed, younger looking Charles was gone, his eyes darting to take in her expression as though poised for danger. Regret and frustration swamped around her as she instantly felt her body mourning the loss of the zinging, electric pleasure. "Just...don't— _fuck—_ just don't stick anything in," she elaborated quickly, only to then cringe at the inarticulate and near nonsense way the words fell from her mouth. She watched his frown only slightly, only for realisation to dawn on him and set the space between his brows smooth again. _Just don't put anything into me,_ she wanted to say and she would have, had it not felt like reliving the nightmares itself to even think the words. _I'm sorry, but the very thought of_ that _sensation makes me want to be sick._

"Of course! Fucking hell, sweetheart, of _course –,"_ He gave her a smile she knew was intended to try and make her feel as though he entirely understood what she was going through... and in this moment, she was grateful for it, even if it could never really be true. "Thank you for telling me," he whispered, diplomatically smiling at her as though he wasn't shaken by her request. (She was not sure if he realised, but she knew he wasn't just by the pinched nature of his eyes and the way the smile was a little _too_ wide). With another tiny caress, she watched him watch her and when she moved, then he would, too. Like magnets. _He doesn't want me for my body,_ she wanted to sigh out loud in jubilation, thriving by the way his eyes never strayed to her partial nakedness when they so easily could have. Instead, his eyes remained on her face, narrow and smouldering. _He just wants_ me.

Something strange began to happen after that, as the boundaries had been set and the caresses started up again: her body began to feel as though it was humming with a electric kind of energy unlike any other kind of chemistry she had known before. While Charles' talents had always been rather extensive in the bedroom due to his relentless tenderness and attention to detail, Molly had always needed simultaneous stimulation beyond simple touches to the target area. Her body had an incredibly long fuse, so Charles would say, and it would always require time and patience to get her to a point of oblivion. Charles liked to joke that it was down to how rarely she ever sat still and her inability to shut up, but Molly knew that deep down it was because being that lost in the actions of someone else still intimidated her sometimes. After all, it was the most vulnerable one could be with the one they love most.

As she lay on their mattress now however, feeling the weight of his eyes on her, warm and familiar, she was incredibly surprised to feel a strange kind of pulsing take over her entire body, almost like the singing of blood through one's veins after falling over the edge of release... but it wasn't quite so sharp or plummeting. All the orgasms she had ever known, well, she could only liken them to a PT out on tour; there was climb, a trek to get there, one that made her body tight with lactic acid as her muscles tensed with overuse and pleaded for the chance to relax. Of course, then the PT would finally come to an end, that first seat on the ground and that first unceremonious pull of water would feel like a wondrous fall into comfort that left her whole body feeling both shellshocked but also ringing with endorphins.

This time, something seemed to change. She had no idea if it was the tea or if it was the way he was touching her with the lightest of fingers, in grazing, tantalising circles, but she felt the ringing of her muscles, the rush of endorphins and the pulsing of her whole body, _all_ without much of a climb at all. It was not nearly as acute, but rather like a continuous rolling ache, she felt herself riding the waves her was providing her with and for once not even looking towards the end destination. There was no race for the end goal now, but rather a chance to simply bask in the glory of the view.

When she came back to herself, she heard a voice that sounded only partially like her own keen and mew with reckless abandon into the quiet of the room. Her hand had found its way into his curls as he pressed her face to hers, breathing the same air as he continued to stare, unseeing, over her face. Her breathing was coming in long, drawn out heaves by the time he eased the steady circles he had been drawing over and over between her thighs to a halt. She could barely see, her eyes misted with tears of exertion as she tried her best to grasp back onto a single strand of coherent thought. Instead, all she could manage was a weak exhale that was almost a sob as she reached up into her hair to try and anchor herself. As she felt the muscles deep in her abdomen quiver and twitch despite the fact his intimate manipulations had halted, rippling through her and tightening her facial muscles in yet another moaning sigh.

"My, my, Mrs. James," Charles whispered, a soft, self-satisfied smirk curling his full lips at the corners as he leaned in kiss her cheek lovingly. "Is that relaxed enough for you?"

She barely managed a nod, all the energy knocked out of her as she curled her arms and legs around him, despite the fact they ached and trembled still. She blinked at him lazily, unable to keep from laughing as she realised what a state she must have looked.

"Fuckin' hell, Bossman," she whispered shakily, kissing his stubbled throat to keep from whimpering as the pleasure rolled through her still. "What did you _do_?"

Charles shrugged off the praise, simply allowing her to curl all four of her limbs around him as he blindly fumbled for a blanket to pull over them. "I told you; the Officer's touch."

She would have thumped him for such a ' _Rupert'_ response, but she had no energy to move at all. As she pulled his face down, raising her chin so he could burrow into the crook of her neck, she sighed, filled to the brim with a blinding, call-consuming contentment. Charles hummed deep in his chest as he shrugged off his shirt sleeves lazily, moving his body into the softness of hers automatically. It was only then that she felt it, the evidence of what they had just been doing, pressed, pulsing and undeniably hard, against her leg.

She tried not to react, but she must have subconsciously stiffened, because he pulled back to take in her expression. She went to open her mouth, to tell him it was okay, that she wasn't _so_ far gone that she was frightened at the very thought of his penis for God's sake, but he stopped her before she could, his large hands bracing either side of her neck. His thumbs caressed her jawline and as she met his eyes, she gasped at the heat she found there, no longer dampened by fear of her rejection.

"You think I don't want you?" He let out a chuckle that held little humour, as though he was in fact laughing at his own predicament as his eyes flitted momentarily down to his crotch before he locked onto her eyes again. " _Now_ do you see how... _ridiculous_ it is that you could ever think that?" He consciously tried to put some distance between her thigh and his hips, noting the look of trepidation she wore, but when he tried to pull back too far, she grabbed his arms to keep him close enough to hold, enjoying the sensation of his hard biceps under her fingers. The deep, rich baritone question resonated through her almost as easily as the pleasure he had bestowed upon her had done, triggering her pulse to raise and her cheeks to flush as though her body was automatically triggered by the very tone he used.

"Guess so," she whispered, not sure what else to say. "Y'know, it ain't really about you, me sayin' that. I jus––"

"––I know," he said, kissing her forehead long and slow in the way that made her sigh out loud. He shifted uncomfortably at the sound and she bit her lip guiltily as insecurity girding across his eyes as he tried is best to relax while also keeping his hips away from her. Her eyes lingered down at his crotch for a moment too long as she felt guilt clog up her throat.

"I just don't think I can–– _I shouldn't 'ave_ ––because now you're _all_ ––"

"Molly––"

"––you're all... _up_ ," she finished, stroking the pad of her thumb over his lower lip distractedly, flapping her other hand in a flirting of trying to find the right words.

" _Molly."_ His more forceful tone broke through her nervous verbal rambling and it reminded her of the old days when he had always had to chastise her as her boss to get her to be quiet. The reality had been that she had only talked _at_ him so much on that tour because he made her so nervous, of course.

"What?"

He reached to halt her idle fingers, puckering a kiss on her thumb in consolation. "I say this affectionately, but please shut the fuck up." His nose was wrinkled upward in the way it always did when he was sniggering to himself.

" _Charming_ ," she grumbled, pretending to pout in derision but barely managing to keep a straight face. She flushed with embarrassment to have been caught tripping over her own tongue, but it was short-lived. Chuckling an inch from her face, he pressed a lingering kiss to her lips, one she all too eagerly greeted halfway with a forceful hand to the back of his head, and ran his nose the length of hers in a move that never failed to make her exhale breathlessly.

" _Really_ , Molly. I'm okay. Don't worry."

She looked at him doubtfully, rolling her eyes at him halfheartedly. "Are you sure?" Suddenly she did the maths in her head, realising just how long it must have been since he had had the chance to... _relax himself_. "Fuck, Charlie; it's been like... _four months_ ," she breathed regretfully, smoothing her hand over his face as she surveyed his expression. "Y'balls must be _blue_ down there."

Her comment had been an earnest one but her typically crass choice of language never failed to make him grimace a little, ever the Officer he was. She watched him swallow thickly, adverting his eyes before he pushed out a laugh. "How are you so _sure_ it's been four months?" he challenged, fixing her flat to the bed with the mischievous glint in his eyes. "Don't tell me you're forgotten about those polaroids in my bergen… They most definitely help a man whose mind is more than a little… _preoccupied...when his wife is away..._ "

A surge of pride and physical possessiveness triggered a shit-eating grin on her own face as she tried hard not to groan out loud at the very _thought_ of Charles becoming _preoccupied_ looking at pictures of her…

She shivered despite the warmth of his body radiating against her, biting her lip to keep in a noise of appreciation for the memories as they surfaced. _As if she_ could _forget that_ _particular creative honeymoon activity..._ "I ain't likely to forget," she whispered, flitting her eyes to his until she was looking up at him through her lashes.

His gaze was suddenly hooded as his chest rattled in a feral noise of appreciation. "Best bloody wedding present a man could ask for," he grinned, much like he had the day she had given him said present – minus the uniform and the wedding dress.

After her being away for so much of their engagement, she had been struck with inspiration for what to give him while chatting with Jackie about sexual frustrations that accompanied being away on tour. She had been telling her soon-to-be maid of honour when she suddenly relived the horrific day when Kinders had allowed her to pack up Charles' kit and personal belongings after he had been shot, when she was asked to make sure no porn went home to Rebecca in his things. It had been a rather sickening thought for her to have thrown at her, having already been reeling not only with the knowledge that he was married but also with utter despair at the very thought he might not come back. But, in hindsight, it made her also think of him as a man and _just_ as a man for the very first time. As she remembered how surprised she felt at the idea that the Bossman might have porn to hife, Molly suddenly struck inspiration for a rather erotic way to solve the problem of leaving a heavily frustrated husband behind while she was out in Afghan or the middle of god-knows-where.

Her Nan had given her some pretty insightful input on this topic, rather inappropriately reminding her that a man with idle hands and an absent wife could be a recipe for disaster... unless of course the husband was provided with... _reminders_ of what would be coming back to him. So, she had bought him one of those new Japanese cameras that printed bordered photos instantly and therefore could not be replicated... and she was giddy with pride when he had all but pounced on the wedding gift. As a result, there ended up being quite a number of rather _intimate_ photoshoots on their honeymoon... and Molly had not always been the only subject within them...

She swallowed hard and sighed out loud as she wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling his face settle comfortably into the curve of where her throat met her sternum. "So I've heard before," she quipped sarcastically in reply, opting to elaborate on where her thoughts had disintegrated to. "Y'basically admitting to perving over pictures of me while you're meant to be soldiering, Bossman?"

Charles smirked at her with narrowed, glittering eyes, refusing to rise to the bait of her joke. "No more so then you're admitting to perving over Polaroids of me, Dawesy. After all, the whole thing was _your_ idea…"

Her cheeks were hot as she recalled the one time she had found a moment of solace and quiet to do so a few weeks before, hiding in her sleeping bag so she could gaze at the photographic evidence of Charles' torso as his head was thrown back in the throngs of passion...

"Smart arse," she mumbled, determined to have the last word but without anything else to say. Feeling the denim against her bare legs, she flexed her toes against his calf. "Don't fall asleep in them jeans," she muttered sleepily, her eyes sliding closed as she felt him relax his stumbled cheek against her chest. "They'll cut off the blood flow to y'balls," she warned in monotone when he didn't move. Making a noise of realisation and weariness, he lifted his head from its cushion of breasts and cotton and placed an apologetic kiss against her collarbone as he lifted his warmth from her to rid himself of his restrictive jeans, untangled their limbs enough to yank them down his legs.

She pretended not to watch him, but she could not help but do so, although averting her eyes from the tent that became visible in his briefs, feeling guilty again. She must have given herself away with a change in expression, because he huffed and pretended to be offended at her peeping.

"Excuse me! Who do you think you are, watching me change through false pretences!"

"Oh, shut up, y'big perv!" she yawned as she pulled him back into her hold of all four limbs, shuddering as he pulled the covers over them. "I won' really looking – I was just opening my eyes."

"I love you, too, sweetheart," he murmured dryly, his hand seeming to seek out her breast beneath her vest, holding the weight of it in his hand and tracing the old scar on the velvet underside that she obtained when she was fifteen and managed to burn herself there with her mum's straighteners. Usually it made her heart flutter when he did it, when he chose to praise and appreciate the smallest flaws on her body that way. She knew it was an automatic thing for him to do, as for so long she would take him into her hold, legs and arms linked around him, and his head would fall into the curve of her neck, his hand taking a handful of her breast as it fell naturally across her chest. It shouldn't have taken her surprise at all and yet it did today, somehow. Taking a deep breath, she tried her best to calm herself from the tiny tremble of anxiety in her gut that came with the unexpected contact.

"I _do_ love you," she replied softly, suddenly feeling the impulse to say it. Feeling herself slowly falling into the unavoidable quicksand of sleep, she flexed her neck to try and pull him even closer, tightening her eyes shut as she felt him kiss her were his lips met her pulse. The soft scratch of his stubble had always been strangely soothing. She never understood why so many of her female friends complained when their partners wouldn't shave. "Love you fuckloads actually," she whispered sleepily, trying to hold onto consciousness to keep the warmth and intimacy of this moment with her and the fear of the outside world at bay. "I'm just…sorry I ain't… _better…_ and that I'm giving you blue balls… Don't mean it…" Somewhere on the shoreline of her mind, she was aware of him chuckling at her, but before she could hear his response or even keep hold of the thread that told her what he was replying to, she was _far_ away, riding toward the horizon of dreams on a sea that was, for the first time in weeks, without turbulent weather.


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: Hey y'all,_

 _So, this has been a pretty heavy to write. I've spent a good while researching the legal process of court marshals, so hopefully I'll be able to write the increasingly difficult chapters with some some level of accuracy and confidence, if I have the time, that is. I hope no one sees Molly's experiences here as un-feminist or whatever. I just know that PTSD is real and not only does it change how people cope or don't cope with things, but it can have very real physical symptoms._

 _I honestly don't think I have ever loved a character so much as I do Molly, so I hope you all know that I am determined to right by her, eventually, so no worries about that. It just also really matters to me that the experience she goes through is true to life, because so many women face the shame and fear that unwanted physical contact can bring... and it's never easy._

 _Anyways, enough prattling. Please leave lovely chatty reviews if you have any thoughts because I LOVE THEM._

 _LOVE & HUGS, _

_Stars Walk Backward_

* * *

 _"If you're anything like me,_  
 _You bite your nails,_  
 _And laugh when you're nervous._  
 _You promise people the world,_  
 _because that's what they want from you._

 _You like giving them what they want..._  
 _But darling, you need to stop._

 _If you're anything like me,_  
 _You knock on wood every time you make plans._  
 _You cross your fingers, hold your breath,_  
 _Wish on lucky numbers and eyelashes._  
 _Your superstitions were the lone survivors of the shipwreck._  
 _Rest In Peace, to your naive bravado..._

 _If life gets too good now,_  
 _Darling, it scares you._

 _If you're anything like me,_  
 _You never wanted to lock your door,_  
 _Your secret garden gate or your diary drawer;_  
 _  
Didn't want to face the you you don't know anymore...  
_ _For fear she was much better before...  
_ _But Darling,  
_ _now you have to._ _"_

 **–– _"If you're anything like me,"_ \- Taylor Swift**

* * *

 **XIX**

* * *

Warm, glittering images of Charles are, in themselves, hard to hold onto for Molly, like the shifts of time or the fading of an idea on the brink of sleep. Molly found she could never remember him exactly as he was in her mind's eye, and therefore her memories of him were frustratingly transient when he had been away for weeks or months on end.

This particular night is different. She sees him in such micro detail that she is sure it must be real, despite the fact she's stood on a beach and has no idea how she arrived there. She feels her feet in the sand and an intense drive to run to him as she see spots him, mere feet away, hands on his hips as he stands in the waves. She tries to run and yet she doesn't move, becoming so frustrated that she almost calls out for him, only to look down and find the tell-tale slope of a pregnant belly, heavy and encompassing, that weighs her down. She presses a hand to it and she could feel the tangible firmness beneath her palm as clearly as her mind knows Charles.

Then, he's suddenly there at her side, and he has a baby in his arms, chubby and soft as the fuzz of a tender peach and she doesn't question where the time went in between. _Their baby._ She doesn't catch his face, but somehow she knows it's a little boy, perhaps by the mop of delicate, wispy corkscrew curls that made him look just like Charles looked when his own hair was left to grow past regulation length.

A tiny, delicate version of Charles, all giggles and coos of nonsense that made her heart throb and yearn in a way she never anticipated. She reaches out and suddenly the curls are under her fingers. Charles' grin is blinding, making her want to reach to kiss him, but somehow she can't move.

"He's hungry, Mummy," he says wistfully, handing her their baby expectantly. Love and anxiety swap her in equal measure as she stares down at her breasts cluelessly.

 _Mummy._

"I don't know how," she confesses, feeling ill with inadequacy.

"Yes, you do," Charles reassures, reaching between the body of his son and her chest to undo her buttons. "You're brave, Dawesy. You can do anything."

"No, I ain't," she insists, but he isn't listening. He still wears his expectant smile as he talks to their son in a nonsense, singsong voice.

"I'm _shitscared..._ all the time." She says it as a defence, but the words fall away as her baby babbles against her chest, calming her heart with his gentle cooing. Charles kisses his tiny, chubby hand. His eyes are creased with a softness that she knows means he's lost in his thoughts.

"Thank you," he says, pressing a strong hand to her, now flat, stomach as he leans in to kiss her forehead in the way that made her feel treasured.

 _Why are you thanking me? I'm the lamb, not the lion,_ she wants to say. The words are borrowed, though from where she could not say; most likely one of Charles' poetry books she read fascinatingly when he wasn't looking. Looking down at the tiny child, half herself and half Charles, half Cockney and half gentry, it occurs to her that to stare the lion in the face and _still_ stand firm demonstrates more courage than the lion could ever possess alone. She can feel the imprint of his tiny nails digging into her skin, sharp and they almost hurt. Her child's tiny hands cling to her her with a strength that floored her and she realises that despite her fear, this baby deserves for her to rise above it. Suddenly, it just feels very simple: this little boy is worth all the fear in the world.

She woke slowly and it felt like being dragged from the deep; her eyes felt swollen and puffy and her joints stiff. Her body seemed to be reaching backward for the fleeting images from the dream, but like the Afghan sands, they could not be gripped and instead slipped through her fingers. She knew almost instantly that she had not had enough sleep by the way her eyes itched and felt heavy. She tried her hardest to hold onto the last fraying threads of the dream but it was hopeless; already she could not recall the face of the little boy she had felt so gutturally connected to just moments before. Still though, she clenched her eyes shut beneath her pillow and would have swore that she could feel the weight of him in her arms.

She was shocked to find that she felt _mournful_ as the memories disintegrated, her body and mind seeming to crave a presence that was never anything more than her imagination.

Previously, the idea of being a mother had given her willies so strong that it practically bought her up in hives. She was haunted by the exhaustion that all her siblings had brought to her mum's life and the way in which the stress and expense of a family had warped her relationship with Dave until he had all but removed himself from the household as a parent figure altogether by the time Molly was sixteen, choosing the pub over being a father. She had long been terrified that _anything_ might put Charles off her; the last thing she needed was to get fat, grumpy and sleep deprived. He was so _precious_ to her that she had begun building up excuses to avoid the topic of anything that might threaten their intimacy and closeness. She had been so irrationally frightened of having a baby of her own for so long, but as she gave up attempting to cling to sleep and pulled her head from beneath her pillow, she caught sight of him smiling at her sleepily and suddenly she could not, for the life of her, recall _why_.

"What's that face for?" He asked, reaching to kiss her good morning. Minty breath fanned across her face as she was greeted with the softness of his freshly shaved cheek.

"Naffink," she sighed, burying the surprising sensations stirred in her by the dream deep in the back of her mind in a little box under the stairs. "Morning," she whispered, rubbing her tired eyes. "You've been up a while then."

Charles' smile fell a little. "I got a call…" His large hand was holding her face and it was only then that she noticed that he was dressed in his gym clothes. "The MoD have asked me and Georgie to London to locate some potential insurgents. I have to go to up later."

Instantly she was wide awake, reaching for him before he could move away. Irrational fear rose in her throat but she felt powerless to stop it. "They've found him?"

Charles' eyes were guarded with trepidation as he hesitated. He had been furious when he found out that the British-born Shabaab member had got away, but she had yet to see it. He had been focused since returning home on appreciating being alive and well enough to _be_ home, so was starting to realise that he had buried a lot beneath the surface of that new-found lease of life. "They're not sure. Georgie and I were the only ones to even remotely eyeball him, so they're calling us in to look over what they have."

Swallowing, Molly tried her best to smile, hoping to ease his worry.

"What?" His thumbs smoothed over her cheeks, seeming to sense the stiffness in her frame. "What is it?"

"Will you have to stay over?"

She felt guilty for asking, because it shouldn't be about _her_ fear yet again. He sat back on his haunches to take in her face. "Well, they've booked me a room at the Victory Services since they don't know how long going over the intel will take." She nodded in understanding, trying to look supportive. Meanwhile, her mind was racing with all the very worst of things that could happen if she was home alone overnight…

She was too proud to ask him if she could come too. To do so would mean to admit she was afraid to be alone.

"I thought maybe it might be a good idea if you came too, hm?"

Sighing heavily, heady and dizzying relief rushed to her head. She laughed guiltily at herself, pulling his hands down and holding them in her own, fingers interlinking tightly. "How do you always manage to read what's goin' on in my nut?"

"It's a skill," he shrugged casually, flashing her a wonderfully wide smile to cover the fact that he was probably very concerned that his fearless military wife who never once thought twice about crawling over minefields was now afraid of the dark.

They ended up at the gym before heading off to London, despite the fact that it had only been three weeks since Charles had been being held against his will and beaten. She tried to tell him to take it easy of course, but he insisted he was only going to swim. She rolled her eyes at that, because he _never just_ swam.

She was strangely relieved when they arrived and she had set eyes on the treadmills. She had been desperate to run for weeks because running had been her outlet since joining the army, but each time she went to step a single toe outside their front door alone, the hand of dread and anxiety tightened around her throat until she could do nothing but stand and stare at the void. Setting her sights on the machines, she felt the drive to run more than ever and, this time, under the bright fluorescent lighting in the wide open spaces of the gym, there was no lingering ice of dread on the back of her neck. She let go of Charles' hand and diligently handed him her wedding ring at the door, having almost lost it at the gym one too many times. Charles, on the other hand, never lost anything, so now it was routine for her to hand hers over to him for safe keeping. He gave her a soft smile each time she would place it in his palm, her most precious possession in _his_ trust, like he couldn't believe his luck. She had almost suggested that she wear it around her neck the first time he said he would take it, until she remembered the _other_ ring that hung there when she was in her cizzies… and somehow, to replicate the sentiment she first bestowed to Smurf was too close to the bone for both of them.

"Y'better look after that, mate," she jested softly. "Might just be needin' it back."

He gave her one of the near-indistinguishable winks as he slipped off his own before pairing it with hers in his palm, looking far too smug for his own good. She watched him move towards the bench press as she jumped straight on the treadmill, placing her phone down to crank up music through her headphones. It was such a relief, to be able to run and not be doing so because she felt someone on her back – and to know that Charles was in the room with her as she did so. She powered through the instant tiredness she felt within the first twenty minutes, her lack of training over the last weeks showing in the heaving she was already exerting. Her body was exhausted, but her mind felt free again.

Charles caught her eye from across the room as he lifted the weights from his lower legs, giving her a look that she knew well to mean: _"Don't be a stubborn git and push yourself too hard, Dawesy,"_ along with a hand gesture that told her to make sure she drank her water. She rolled her eyes and waved her bottle at him as she ran – and she pretended not to be pleased when she saw him snigger. She _also_ pretended not to notice, as she always did, when yet another female stranger on the machine opposite him would clock him and begin trying to get his attention. It made her laugh these days, mostly because of the commitment to which he pretended he didn't notice, when you would have to be bloody well _blind_ not to. Today, the female stranger was _very_ blonde and frustratingly well toned – though she had a very unfortunate snooty turned up nose that reminded Molly of every Head Girl character in every teen film she had ever seen. Picking up her phone, she broke into a steady jog and tried her best not to laugh as Ms. Snooty started bending over in front of the weight machine.

 _Enjoying the view? x_

She watched him pick up his phone as it lit up in his boxer short pocket and couldn't help but snigger as she watched him instantly look up at her sardonically, shaking his head in disapproval of her immaturity.

 _What view? x_

He could not possibly have missed her, she was sure of that. The woman was directly in his eye line and stretching her legs against the bench in a way that very conveniently put her perfectly round behind on full display in her tiny shorts.

 _Her hair ain't nothin' on the bee-hive I used to have, mate._

She peeped through her hair in time to catch him frowning, perplexed, down at his phone, before looking up and inconspicuously looking around him to see just who she was talking about. As he turned to his left, he came face to face with said woman in question and the rather dominant peacocking display. She could barely keep down the snort that caught in her throat at the look he suddenly wore on his face, his face smoothing over as his brows shot high towards his hairline in disinterest and distaste.

 _It ain't fair,_ she typed, impressed and glad that her ability to run and type remained as good as it always was. _I could do a thousand million of your bloody PTs and I'll never have a watermelon arse like that!_

She watched the bark of a laugh he expelled as the text arrived, the sound of it drowned out by the sound of thumping music in her ears. She watched him flick his thumbs across his shiny, immaculate iPhone so quickly it might look as though he did not reply to her at all, but as he placed it down into his kit bag beside him, her own vibrated on the treadmill console.

 _Your arse is damn well peachy enough for me, Dawes… and, besides, you_ know _I don't like watermelon! x_

She threw her head back and cackled as she increased her speed, enjoying the heady, breathless burn of endorphins as they rushed to her head. She looked over her shoulder to throw him a wink, only to find the eyes of said blonde stranger looking at her, which only made her laughter worse. A peek at Charles and she could see he was struggling to keep it together, nonchalantly attempting to keep his eyes away from her as he operated the bench press. It felt so _good_ to joke like they used to, she thought. It was only with the lightness of jokes and humour that she truly realised how stressed she had been feeling since they got home.

She ran for a good half an hour before a withheld phone number appeared on her phone, bringing an abrupt halt to her pumping soundtrack. Slowing to a halt, she frowned in confusion as she went to answer it.

She should have known that nothing good ever came of answering withheld calls.

 _"Lance Corporal James-Dawes?"_

The voice was authoritative and sharp.

"Yeah? Who's asking?"

 _"This is Staff Sargent Frank, from Serious Incident Branch. We met in Kenya, if you remember. How are you, Dawes?"_

She suddenly felt numb hearing her voice, thrown back to the memory of that day, when she had been forced to pick through what had happened to her for the first time.

"Oh, yes, sorry, ma'am. Alright, I suppose," she said, feeling pathetic at her lack of vocabulary. "Can I 'elp you with something, ma'am?" Army protocol felt strongly alien on her tongue after three weeks off, but she was stuck with the relief to have a return to some boundaries. The last thing she wanted was to be a victim to her own emotions forever.

"I was just calling to discuss with you what I know was discussed briefly the other week – I came by your home address but you weren't in. The JAG have set the official date for your court marshal to be December 18th. Can you confirm that you are able to be present and correct on this date?"

She nodded diligently, until she remembered that her superior could not see her. December 18th. That was but two weeks away… "Affirmative, ma'am," she managed to force out, her own voice sounding foreign and quiet.

"I know you have been taking some much needed R&R, but you still need to selected an Allocated Officer to be present with you in any further proceedings. As I mentioned, it cannot be your husband. I'm sorry for the last minute nature, but I will need to know by the end of the day––."

"––Corporal Georgina Lane," she found herself saying without pause for thought. She knew whose iron will she needed. "Ma'am – if she'll take me, 'course."

"Of Two Section?" She didn't sound surprised. "Alright; that's all I need for now. Although, you'll need to meet with your legal team now, Dawes. You can't put it off any longer. Captain James has been sorting it by proxy as I understand, but you'll need to meet with them before the court marshal. I assume you know the procedure?"

"Yes, ma'am." She suddenly felt exhausted, leaning against the railing of the machine. "Is he…?" The words fill her throat like some foreign object blocking her air. "What if he––?"

"He can't come within a hundred yards of you other than during official proceedings. You're safe, Lance Corporal. I assure you, with all my power, that you will be kept safe."

Molly gulped, unable to breathe as the inevitable question she had dare not ask fell from her mouth. "He's _out?"_

"He made bail, did you not know?" Frank replied, her tone telling Molly that this was information that should not be a surprise. "He has had his charge read before the court and he entered a plea of not guilty, rather unsurprisingly. Were you not informed? He was not held after being charged because he doesn't have any previous convictions, but he knows he cannot approach you, Dawes, or anyone close to you. Frankly, he would have to be stupid to do so."

He was claiming she was lying… He was _free._

Suddenly, she could not keep from squirming, shaking as she could no longer tell whether or not his freckled, pale, _grabbing_ hands were on her of if it was her imagination. His Scottish accent, thick and throaty, was suddenly in her ear, laughing at her futile attempts to fight him off, _mocking her for trying_.

"Thank you, Staff," she choked, balling her fists in an attempt to keep it together. "Is that all you need?"

"Yes, for now, thank you, Dawes. Call me if you need anything. Your liaison officer will be in touch."

She was shaking as she hung up, suddenly unsure where it was that her brain was at. _His_ hands, _his_ voice, _his_ sweat; it was suddenly all around her. Suddenly the expansive gym – a David Lloyd that cost God-only-knows how much simply because Charles was too up his own arse to use the gym at the barracks – felt tiny and humid, as though there wasn't enough room in the entire space to fill her lungs. The heat of bodies and the lingering scent of sweat was nothing compared to the oppressive, all consuming climate of a military base in Afghanistan… but suddenly it was all she could feel. She could have sworn on her own neck that she wasn't in a David Lloyd anymore. The stench of unfamiliar sweat was heavy, surrounding, somehow combined with the dry, hazy texture of moon dust and the faint stale lingering of cigarettes. It was _him._ She had no idea whether or not the swell of sudden internal panic and sensory blindness showed on her face, but even if it hadn't, the haphazard way she threw herself towards the door as quickly as she could would no doubt tell all those who saw that something was wrong. She was not exactly keen on the idea of vomiting her guts up in front of a room full of strangers, but more than that, she just _had_ to get away from the _smell_.

The next thing she was conscious aware of was the dull pain of her knees hitting the hard, tiled floor of the gym toilet as she threw herself into a stall to reach the bog before she reversed her stomach all over the shop. She heard, rather than felt, herself retch loudly as she lost all of the egg breakfast Charles had made her into the toilet. Bizarrely, she found herself rather irrationally making a mental note to apologise to him for the waste.

As she pressed her forehead to the cold porcelain of the fancy toilet, she was reeling with just how out of touch she was felt, like her body was not her own and her mind was elsewhere. She knew by now that she was a sufferer of PTSD on her worst of days and therefore what to look out for, but _this_ was new. While her _usual_ episodes surrounded a fear of losing others, of _others_ hurting and dying, this was filled with a sickening kind of fear that can only come with the all-consuming drive for _self_ preservation. The terror she felt in her veins was, in itself, incredibly frightening for a soldier, because she was used to being in control at least of her own vulnerability. She had never had the mockery of memories such real, horrifying _shame_ before. Well… except perhaps once.

" _There are all sorts of dangers about…"_

Lawrence's taunt came back to her as clearly as she could see the tattoos of little strawberries on her wrist in front of her eyes and it left her with no breath in her lungs. In a life forgotten, she had gotten those tattoos to hide Artan's name, which she had once inked there as the greatest a mark of love that she had known how to give. That was until he had shat all over her feelings with her closest friend… because he didn't respect her.

" _How could anyone?"_ Captain Lawrence was like some kind of earworm, as the words he had sneered at her as he had told her there was no escape arrived as a grim reminder to her existing insecurities _. "You're the girl who shags her CO. Why would they believe you wouldn't do it again?"_ She could suddenly recall the mix of tobacco and mint of _His_ breath as he had pressed her against the tin of the shitter with such strength that it _hurt…_ but it had been nothing compared to the pain that had followed.

Unable to keep the memories at bay now, she gagged as the memory of his sweat and breath circled around her like the worst of her demons. Unlike PTSD episodes of her past, this one did not disappear just as soon as it arrived leaving you wondering if you imagined the whole thing, but lingered like the stale smell of Captain Lawrence's nicotine habit and brought up the entire contents of her stomach as she tried to push it all back down into the box under the stairs to no avail.

When she heard the bang of the door behind her, she jumped out of her skin, both desperate to save herself some kind of dignity in the safe of whatever poor woman may wonder in innocently to go for a wee, but mostly because, in the forefront of her mind, she wasn't here, alone. She was back _there…_ with him.

" _Fuck_ , Dawesy." Charles was at her side, taking her by surprise as usual with his ability to observe even when she was sure she had been careful not to draw attention to herself. "It's just me." His tone was concerned and sympathetic and drew her partially from her sea of panic. She lifted her head to try to keep to him fully, but managed barely a sentence before the fear of what she was about to say clenched her stomach and threw it into reversal again.

"He's...It's... _Him..."_ Panic made her voice so high and breathless she barely recognised it. Blindly, she felt around behind her for Charles body, needing something to anchor herself to. Immediately, he gave her his hand and squeezed it hard as she continued to bow forward, gasping.

"Lawrence?" He sounded surprised, but a moment later the tone had changed to one of quiet realisation as he pressed his lips to her shoulder. "He's not here, Molly."

Clenching her eyes shut, she could hear _Him_ sneering. "I think I'm bloody losing it," she whimpered, pressing the heel of her free hand into her eye socket so hard a flash of blue sparked across her vision. "I can _smell_ him—!"

"Shh," he soothed above her. "It's just your mind, Dawes. It's just fear. You know the drill; you know you do," he murmured, so quiet and gentle he was no doubt trying to soothe her.

She made a noise of distress as she tried his suggestion and yet still felt another wave of panic and therefore nausea overtake her, feeling powerless to stop it as she gagged.

"Just let it out, sweetheart." His hand palm smooth circles on her back. As though hearing him, her stomach rolled again and left her with no choice but to retch aggressively, despite the fact she now had no breakfast left to bring up. Ever diligent, he had a hold of the strands of hair that were falling loose before he went to smooth his hands over her back again. His hands were so very warm, no doubt from the training session he just abandoned, but they suddenly felt stifling against her skin.

"Please don't," she breathed out before she really knew what she was saying, bracing her forehead against the rim of the toilet bowl to hide the tears in her eyes. The walls around her felt far too near and the air far too close. Charles' heat and masculine scent were suddenly all she could take in… and it threw her, just how much worse it made her feel. She felt the nausea crest like a wave as she pushed back against the unwanted reminders of Afghanistan with all her power; her upper lip and back now feeling sticky with a new sheen of exertion. "He's _everywhere_ ––."

"It's alright," he asserted, allowing for no doubt with his tone as he ignored her apology. "It'll pass, hm? Just focus on where we _are,_ alright? Deep breaths. You're here, with me. You're _okay_."

She didn't notice he had moved until he was suddenly offering her his bottle of water, encouraging her to sit up in his usual, military no-nonsense way. As he went about his dealings with her like this, he was so unnervingly calm that it almost made things worse. She wanted to scream, as the smog of the flashbacks cleared: _He's out there. I have to face him in two bleedin' weeks._ Instead, as Charles lay a damp fresh towel over her shoulders, she said nothing, only just coming to enough to realise that she could not see because she was crying. The cold compress was a wonderful relief and it woke her from the haze of heat that had only helped to encourage the wildfire of the flashback… or perhaps it was _flashbacks_ , as in plural. She really could not tell.

Her stomach tightened slightly as the last of her retching dissipated, leaving behind spasms and shakes and the inevitable shame of vulnerability as she realised that she had her face in a bog bowl yet _again_ – albeit a rather posh bog. She was not sure how long they sat there, but after a while, her head cleared enough for her to raise her eyes to him.

"Hey there," Charles greeted as she lifted her head to look at him, finally seeing him fully again as the chokehold of terror had given way to exhaustion. He was smiling at her in the way he smiled at Sam when he was poorly, which she knew meant he was just pretending. He was very good at pretending that he wasn't anxious, to his credit; she guessed the Army was the best place in the world to learn such a skill. But he wasn't perfect and had she not lived with him in her life for the last few years, she would have been fooled, just like she was in the old days. Now though, she knew he would not only tug at his hair when he was frustrated, but he would smile a little too much when he was trying to look calm for someone else's benefit, and usually he would make needless jokes that were both not his style and not at all funny – all of which he stole from Elvis. He would look over Sam when he ran a fever for days with such a blasé smile, all teeth and no warm eyes, pretending that he _wasn't_ going to march into the other room and call a doctor that wasn't Rebecca to get a second opinion, but Molly knew full well that each and every time, he would. "Any better?"

His words were vague and no doubt deliberately so, as she knew medical topics were not his forte and, more than that, personal involvement fucked up his ability to demonstrate a fully functioning emotional spectrum. Right then, as he looked at her, _over_ her, trying to analyse her physical and emotional state, the only thing that told her he was _not_ panicking was the way he stroked her hair, so very gently. He had not retreated entirely into military mode which was a relief. She could still reach him; she had not distressed him _too_ much.

She could tell however that he was completely clueless as to the best course of action. After all, she had been fine but ten minutes ago, joking with him about Ms. Watermelon Bum and feeling rather good, for once.

That, and she had told him not to touch her.

It had been an instinct order, one she was not even sure she could decode if he had asked her to, but he was far too diplomatic and polite to dare, anyway. It hurt him, she was sure, to hear her say it, and she wanted to throttle herself. _He didn't deserve to have this taken out on him…_ but, shit, in that moment, she just couldn't have _any_ hands on her, end of story. Any and all hands, no matter their intentions, would have just been _his hands._

 _"Yeah,"_ she croaked, sitting up and squirting water from his bottle directly into her mouth from a distance to swill out her mouth several times. When she dared look at him again, her words were barely her own. "Sorry."

"Stop bloody saying sorry."

" _Sorry_ ," she replied automatically, only to laugh nervously as she realised her mistake. She felt so weak and shaky, wishing she had more clothes on than the long t-shirt and leggings she wore. Her eyes filled again and she swore automatically. "It was just… I thought… It was _him_ ," she whispered.

She was rigid as she tried her hardest not to let the sensory overload take over again as she allowed herself, finally, to crawl into the space between them and bury her head against his chest. Charles was careful with his hands, cupping the back of her head to bring her face into his view; he wanted to read her expressions, no doubt. "Staff Sarg. Frank called to tell me…'bout the court marshal date," she wheezed, her eyes stinging. "And it was just like, _boom_ , I was back there." She made sure not to breathe through her nose, as she spoke, paranoid that the smell of Charles' own perspiration might set her off again. "The heat and the _sweat_ ; I just––." She almost gagged again, bringing her hand to her mouth as she couldn't look at him.

" _Hey_ , stay with me," he ordered, taking hold of her face with his large, hot hands to keep her eyes locked on his. "You're okay; you're _safe_." His words felt like a mantra she had heard from him before, though she couldn't place when or where. He had her in his arms within an instant, unable to help himself as usual from hugging her close. (He claimed that he wasn't a hugger… but Molly knew better). "You don't have to explain just now; just focus on me, okay?" He pressed his lips to her head a few times, trying his best to calm her without letting his hands wonder like he used to. She appreciated his thoughtfulness, but also missed the days when he would run and knead everywhere he could reach when she was stressed and she wouldn't be triggered by his taking handfuls of her flesh.

"You? Well, that's easy, mate. You have brown eyes, like them fancy chocolates that your mum buys ya' at Easter, despite the fact you're a grown man," she replied dryly. "You wrinkle your nose when you laugh and you're obsessed with that gay bloke that plays piano in all them rhinestones."

"His _name_ is Elton John and he's more than just a bloke in rhinestones," he replied dryly, knowing full well that she knew what his favourite singer's name was. "I said 'focus on', Molly, not 'castrate my character'," he mumbled good-naturedly. "But good to know what first comes to your mind."

"You'll live," she replied nonchalantly, pretending to not consider his feelings as she stood up slowly.

" _Oh,_ to have a dear, loving wife," he hummed wistfully, sarcasm gentle prodding at her verbally like the old days, which immediately earned him a sharp physical poke in the ribs.

"Oi!" She exclaimed in indignation. "I _am_ the nuts of a wife, me! Ms. Watermelon Arse practically drooled all over you an' I didn't give scratch her eyes out, did I?"

Charles was grimacing, rubbing his side. "I'm not sure how that consistories wife of the year when I hadn't even _noticed_ said woman – _and_ might I add, you just _assaulted_ your _injured_ husband."

Pausing at the door, she immediately dropped her humour and reached to touch his side, cringing guiltily. "Shit, Charlie, sorry. How are they? I _told_ you not to go too hard with them weights."

He rolled his eyes at her chastisement but smiled tenderly at her obvious worry for him. "I'm fine – they're mending, don't worry. They just ache."

Looking around, Molly suddenly clocked their surroundings, frowning in confusion at the sight of a urinal behind him.

"Did you not realise you ran into the men's?" he asked, trying his best not to laugh as he took her hand to lead her out again.

"I was just focused on not sicking up in front of all those strangers, so, no. I wasn't really looking, obviously."

Gratefully, she slowed outside the entrance to the main gym and let go of him.

"Finish your session. I'll just got sit in the cafe for a bit."

"Are you sure—? I'm almost—."

"— _Go_ ," she insisted, pushing against his chest as she kept hold of his water bottle. "That's an order... _Sir_."

Biting down on his lower lip, he wrinkled his nose in a snigger at her tone and she could see from the electricity in his eyes that he too was recalling all the times she had called him by that formality. Providing her with a mock salute, he parted with a gentle smoothing of his thumb across her cheek. It left her bereft as she had, momentarily, expected a kiss, until she remembered she had just been sick. Hurriedly, she went in search of some complementary mouthwash and thanked the lord when they didn't seem surprised when she asked for it. Making her way into the women's locker room, she took a long moment to calm her unsteady body as she rinsed out her mouth, noticing her hands were shaking.

"Get it together, Dawes," she hissed to her mottled reflection, already willing the anxiety in her veins away by sheer force. She threw the problems into the box under the stairs and forced it shut with ten layers of mental tape, determined not to fall victim to such a public display of weakness again.

Soon enough, she found herself in the large, organic cafe ordering her usual builder's tea and then barely managing more than a few mouthfuls of it as she stared into space and ignoring the way her throat still burned after the reflux of her own stomach acid. She sat herself with the back to the furthest wall, unable to sit with her back to strangers without an icy chill of anxiety spreading across the back of her neck, similar to that she had known during war, though this time she didn't have a Section to watch her back for her.

"Molly?! Molly _Dawes?"_

Her eyes snapped up from her cup of tea at the sudden voice, unfamiliar and excitable, only to find the face of her very first friend from Phase One Basic training, none other than Katie Robertson. Her hair was cropped just below her chin now, trim and practical, and she had lost a dress size by the looks of it... but Molly would recognise her anywhere. Her first _true_ comrade.

"Katie!" She launched to her feet, worry forgotten, and engulfed her old friend into her hold. "Holy shit! It's _so_ flippin' good to see you, honestly!"

Katie squeezed her back with equal enthusiasm as they both laughed at one another's grinning faces. "I barely recognised you without that blonde beehive!" her friend giggled, her soft northern accent suddenly so familiar that it instantly threw Molly back over four years when she had been sick with nerves about her lack of clothes to wear for her interview and Katie had come to her rescue.

"God, don't remind me!" Molly cried in mock despair, about to sit down and relax until she clocked the baby carrier but her friend's feet. A small, inquisitive head was already weaving and bobbing to try and get a good view of the new stranger and Molly couldn't help but do the same, a gasp rushing from her mouth.

"Is that yours?!"

Settling into the armchair beside Molly's, Katie laughed, lifting the wringing baby from the carrier immediately. "Yeah – somehow! I swear y'meet a bloke and all you do is blink once and you're pregnant and all moved in before—."

"—he even has chance to _finish_?" Molly inserted cheekily, unable to keep from laughing very loudly when that same old look of shock, indignation and modesty crossed her face, just as it always had when Molly had been crude or utterly unguarded in your choice of words.

"I'd almost forgotten that mouth of yours," Katie replied, grinning down at her baby as they craned to touch the dark hair of this interesting new stranger who liked to laugh. "Looks like you have an admirer. Little George here likes the ladies, don' ya?"

Molly took in the sight of the fragile but determined little human with trepidation, mostly because she didn't understand why all of a sudden, the sight of his downy little blonde head and chubby little hands were making her want to run away with him quite this much.

"Want to hold him?" Katie asked, taking a sip of a bottle of water as she watched her friend gazing at her son with guarded interest. At that very moment, George decided to assert his presence in the conversation, screeching and babbling excitedly as he grabbed at the air with his tiny hands. It made Molly smile automatically, remembering how conversational her brothers were at that age, all eager to be held up height because they couldn't quite crawl yet. She reached and took Little George expertly into her lap. His head, too large for his body, wobbled like a bobble-head that people in American movies always had in their cars. His eyes were wide and a light grey blue as he reached for a chunk of Molly's hair that had fallen from her hair-bobble.

"Careful. He's at the hair-pulling stage, the li'le tyke."

Molly winced as she found this out for herself, only just managing to untangle his tiny fingers from strands of her hair with meticulous care. Once she had managed, she gave him a toy from his carrier and laughed as he immediately put it in his mouth, hair forgotten.

"What you up and about these days?" Katie asked inevitably, nodding towards the Army kit bag at her feet. "Still in?"

"Yeah," she replied by default, only to stall and realise that she was not actually sure if that was true, now anyway. "Well, actually, I dunno' wha's going on right now. I'm..." She paused, falling over her own words and feeling heat rise in her cheeks. "Jus' not sure about anything right now."

If Katie sensed her old friend was troubled, she didn't say. Instead, she nodded in simple understanding and diligently moved on. "You were out in Afghanistan last I 'eard, right?" She sounded impressed, as though war was a milestone to be aimed for. "I bet you have 'em all as good as you got."

Molly's brows quirked as she considered this idea, momentarily recalling the dark flash of Bashira's brother's eyes as he clouted her round the lip.

"Sometimes," she shrugged. "Startin' to fink trouble really does just follow me around, or maybe I follow it. I dunno." She tugged her hair behind her ears subconsciously, thankful for Little George as he now gave her a welcome distraction from the dark path her thoughts appeared to digress to.

"I think we all feel like that sometimes," Katie replied, making George giggle with a tickle to his round, firm baby tummy. His infectious high pitch giggle made both women laugh automatically. Molly considered this statement and was about to comment that she really wasn't sure she agreed when she found herself distracted by the view of the pool through the opposite glass wall. It didn't take long, a few seconds, for her to realise the reason her eyes had been drawn there, as she caught Charles walking the length of the pool to no doubt make his way to the sauna. Roaming her eyes over his form in his small swimming shorts, she noted she could still see the bruising on his sides in the harsh daylight, but it was surprisingly easy to look past when one noticed the beads of pool water rolling down his skin, leaving the lines of his body looking even more refined. He may not have been in the exact peak shape he had been in when he had left for Brize last, but he was still incredibly tempting, all angular jaw and distinct line to separate the muscles between his pectorals and further down, too. Molly wondered if and when the day would come when she would stop thinking like that, considering all married couples seemed to reach it at some point or another. But, just like trying to imagine the thoughts of a stranger you just met, she found she couldn't even begin to imagine feeling that way when she looked at him. After all, his father was still a very handsome man and he was seventy odd... not that Molly had confessed that particular option to Charles, of course.

The two nattered away about people they knew from basic, swapping stories of who they had crossed paths with over the years until they were laughing far too loudly again. Katie ordered and a tea while Molly became well acquainted with her new little friend, who was babbling away in his own little language in her direction as if she had the foggiest what he was on about. She was grinning like an idiot listening to him, having forgotten how funny babies could be, when suddenly the affection she felt, bordering on maternal, reminded her of the dream she had woken from that morning. In fact, it hit her round the head with the urges all over again.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

Belinda always said that you should never trust a woman who didn't choose, when the opportunity arose, to help another woman when they saw _that_ look in their eye, whether it be a drunk girl being harassed on a dance floor or a disheveled business woman trying not to try on her way from the tube. As Molly looked up at Katie, shocked that her express could have given so much away, she realised that Katie must have been brought up with that advice, too.

And yet, still, her instinct was to lie.

"Yeah, 'course." The bravado fell easily from her mouth. "Why?"

"It's just – no offence – but, you look like you haven't been getting much shut eye and just now you were in your own world for like two whole minutes." Molly's stomach churned. "More trouble followin' ya, is it?"

Molly gulped down hard, leaning unconsciously to cuddle an oblivious Little George closer, pacified somewhat by the musky, baby smell of his downy head. "Yeah, you're right." It was hardly a confession of her secrets, but it was a start. "I ain't been sleepin' much at all since –." She broke off her speech before her tongue could run away with her, as it so often did. " _Since_ my last training post. I only just got back, y'know; it takes a while to get back into normal."

"If y'even _can,"_ Katie replied softly. "I learned that in the worst way on my last tour."

It was brief – so very brief that she would have missed it had she not been looking at Katie's face – but Molly saw a flash of the look her mother had always taught her about cross Katie's face; the look she knew she now wore in her eyes around men _all the time._

"What 'appened?" She leaned in, unconsciously bracing herself for the answer.

"I got felt up by a Corporal in my platoon," she replied, her tone not wavering once. "They didn't deem it serious enough to be dealt with outside of the Army, so our CO was charged top deal with it and he only got a detention order for thirty days. He was moved on… but somehow the army didn't feel the same for me after that."

Molly was so rocked by her friend's candour and the lack of shame she possessed as she talked about it so openly. It was almost as though she was discussing what she had for dinner. Stirred by the shame she currently carried around on her own shoulder's, Molly had to take a moment to breathe and try not to stare in shock.

"Felt up? Like…grabbed y'arse and stuff?" She shifted uncomfortably under the face nonchalance that she had to put in her voice.

"Yeah. It was nothing – I just…" Katie was smiling, shrugging it off. "I just didn't like the way they didn't even think it needed dealing with in real ways, like just because it's something small, it don't matter enough."

"There ain't no such thing as a _little_ thing when you're grabbin' without askin'," Molly replied forcefully, feeling a sudden surge of anger, remembering how Artan always used to grab at her face. "Because that's 'ow it starts and they bleedin' _know_ it! A little thing and another little thing until they get what they _really_ want––!"

"Molls, are you––?"

"––I'm fine," she asserted, pushing down hard on the box beneath the stairs, despite the fact its contents was beginning to push back. "I just… I _know_ what a cock in a uniform can do when he thinks he's a king."

Katie took in her sudden eruption with what looked to be concern rather than interest. There was a long silence stretched between them as Molly found she could not look up. The words felt like an impending disaster but the silence was worse.

If Katie was going to follow up on the obvious hint at distress in Molly, she never got chance.

"I leave you alone for two seconds and you've kidnapped a baby." Charles' soft jest broke unknowingly through the tension of unspoken truths between the two women. Meanwhile, they instantly both smiled at his approach as instantly were glad to pretend it hadn't existed.

 _"Da!"_ Little George shrieked, his round eyes seeming to get even wider as he wobbled on Molly's lap like an enthusiastic bobbing puppy, trying to wrangle free. "Dada!"

Molly rose her eyebrows and watched as Charles frowned in bemusement, looking at her sheepishly. "Got somethin' you want to tell me, Charlie?"

Katie cackled beside her, reaching to pass George a toy to try and pacify him. "Sorry – it's just the uniform," she explained, nodding towards the green camo rain jacket Charles was wearing. "He thinks everyone in army greens is his dad at the moment."

Molly snorted, watching Charles' undeniably relieved expression. Ever the gentleman, he automatically reached out his hand to the stranger before he even greeted Molly with his full attention. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Charles." Molly couldn't help but smirk at his tone; always so very short and proper. Katie shook his hand in a much warmer fashion, though equally formally, instantly sensing the familiar signs of military in him.

"Oh, so, _you're_ the Charles she married. I'm sorry I couldn't make it to your wedding – I was stuck in 'ospital with this one," she laughed, reaching to tickle Little George's tummy. Charles rose an eyebrow, unaccustomed to meeting friends of his wife's that he had never much heard of. It wasn't like she had many. "Molly and me met on our first trial day, back before she became a war hero."

Molly watched Charles beam at her wickedly, forever thirsty for stories of the days when she was a mouthy teenager with a horrendous bottle blonde dye job so he can use it against her when the moment took him. He puffed up his chest in a way she knew meant he was proud of what he was hearing.

" _Really?_ Well, that's Dawesy for you," he replied, pausing at her side to perch on the arm of her chair. "Always showing the rest of us up." As he said it, he turned his face fully to hers and gave her a gentle kiss on her temple in greeting. His eyes were warm and conversational as he looked over her face and she had known him long enough to know he was silently asking her if she was feeling any better. Inconspicuously she gave him a small nod, feeling him curl his fingers around hers, as his other hand smoothed over Little George's head.

"Handsome little chap," he complimented in the soft voice he seemed to reserve just for children. "How old is he? He must be just over 12 months if he was born just before we got married?"

Katie beamed, nodding. "Feels like two minutes. "He's a right rascal but he's my joy."

They all laughed as Little George squealed amongst the adult conversation that went on around him, evidently feeling left out.

"Shit, he's got lungs, ain't he?" Molly remarked, though the joke fell flat by the look of contentment Little George gave her as he yawned and began resting his head against the crook between her neck and her shoulder.

"My son wouldn't shut up by this age," Charles added conversationally, making Molly smile. The baby scent was so lovely that she instantly felt her body calming, combined with a yearning she didn't quite understand. "Looks like I have some competition," Charles murmured gently, his gaze intense as he looked over her.

Molly rolled her eyes at the comment to keep from becoming distracted by the look in his eye. "Only you could be jealous of a baby, Charles." Looking up her old friend, she grinned at the opportunity to tease him. "He can be such a jealous sod, his bottom lip sticks right out when he's got a sulk on – it's like _he's_ twelve months old." She grinned, batting her eyelashes innocently as he rose his eyebrows at her in in a silent challenge.

"Well, I could disagree with you, Dawesy, but I'd be lying," he shrugged nonchalantly, typically not even bothered by the idea that he was jealous. Gutturally, wrongly or rightly, she _liked_ that he got jealous… It reminded her that he truly wanted her, despite all the reasons she had long worried that he probably shouldn't.


	20. Chapter 20

a/n: Some necessary things had to happen in this chapter, but hopefully it's enlightening. It's been a heavy few weeks, so I hope this lives up.

PLEASE REVIEW xxxxx

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 _"I remember the rules, rules that were never spelled out but every woman knew: Don't open your door to a stranger, even if he says he is the police. Make him slide his ID under the door. Don't stop on the road to help a motorist pretending to be in trouble. Keep the locks on and keep going. If anyone whistles, don't turn to look. Don't go into a laundromat, by yourself, at night. I think about laundromats. What I wore to them: shorts, jeans, jogging pants. What I put into them: my own clothes, my own soap, my own money, money I had earned myself. I think about having such control._

 _Now we walk along the same street, in red pairs, and no man shouts obscenities at us, speaks to us, touches us. No one whistles._  
 _There is more than one kind of freedom, said Aunt Lydia. Freedom to and freedom from."_

 **― Margaret Atwood - _'A Handmaid's Tale'._**

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Later as he was driving down to London, Molly was dozing in the passenger seat, her hands wrapped tightly around herself as though she was cold, despite the fact she had the passenger side heat setting on high. Reaching over with one hand, Charles impulsively caressed the side of her face. Immediately he was to regret it as she jolted awake, evidently triggered by the unexpected touch.

"Sorry." Guilt spiked in him and left him floundering for an explanation. "You just look so lovely when you're sleeping… Except when you're mouth hangs open, of course."

"Fuck off, mate. It's you who does that," she swiped back quickly, though she subconsciously checked her chin for signs of drool. Charles smiled, only for the smile to widen when he reached for her hand, resting their entwined fingers on the central reservation where the gearstick would be – _if_ he wasn't such a posh tosser and drove a car that didn't cost half most people's annual salaries, that is.

As they arrived in Newham, Molly watched out the window with interest as street after street of familiar territory crawled past. Each and every time she returned home with Charles in tow, she seemed to see it all in a new light. She looked over all the bright colours of the passing saris, hijabs, market stalls and shopfronts and she felt emotional, just like she always did. She saw all creeds, colours, sensibilities come together here, a microcosm of all walks of life. Before the army, before she met Charles, an entire lifetime before she got married, she had been certain East Ham would always feel like a prison, a place she would never be allowed to grow out of. However, time had been so very kind to her; much kinder than she ever anticipated. Now, she looked at the amalgamation of everything that used to make her feel closeted and instead saw shelter, warmth and the wonderful juxtaposition of it all. In that way, it didn't skip Molly's notice that the borough was almost a reflection of Molly and Charles' relationship: once upon time, the sheer unknown of whether she would be able to grow within it had frightened her… until one day, she realised that their differences, the way they met in the middle in such a clash of wordy conversation, mood swings and secret fears, was precisely what made their relationship so precious.

Now though as they drove, East Ham had gone back to being a place filled with nothing but walls, old ghosts, dark alleys and men whose eyes lingered on her far too long… It was just yet another place where she could no longer feel safe.

"You're awfully quiet," Charles observed softly, squeezing her hand once as he glanced at her between watching the road. He was dressed in his suit, ready for his day at the Ministry of Defence, looking every inch the Whitehall consulting Officer. Seeing him dressed that way made her feel strangely calm. Maybe one day, she thought, maybe he won't go away to such a dangerous job anymore and... maybe _then_ …

She didn't finish the thought, but that didn't stop flashes of the little boy her mind had created in her sleep from finishing it for her.

"Just can't 'elp but see my eighteen year old self on these streets still, y'know?" She loosened her grip on his hand to reach and stroke the soft skin of his neck just above his collar. He flexed his neck toward her touch automatically. "She'd never believe it."

He flitted his eyes to her briefly. "Believe what?"

"Any of it," she replied softly, demonstrating flippancy with the flick of her hand. "The _army…_ meeting someone like you – never mind you _liking_ _back_ someone like her _…"_ Suddenly, her thoughts are sad again, as she remembered the main reason why she was choosing to spend the day with her mum and not sitting in the Vic Services Club's lovely lounge bar… "Or that she'd end up being scared of shadows and strangers even outside her own front door."

Charles didn't comment at first, as was his way of agreeing with her. Instead, he just pulled her hand to him and kissed the back of it, making a low noise she long knew to mean he was empathising with her, his warm lips made the firm contact with the knuckles on her hand.

"But that also means, if you think about it, that you won't believe that you can beat that fear now, either," he said, "but, just like all those things you never expected you could do, you will." Ever insightful, he flicked his eyes to hers again as they all but crawled to a red light. This time, they had time to linger, their whiskey colour brought out by the bright daylight of the city and the blue of his tie. She could tell in that moment that he wanted to kiss her, that he was wishing for the seatbelts that held their bodies back from one another to be gone and for this day to be over with.

"I think you might have too much faith in me, Bossman," she said self consciously, though she smiled at him gratefully for the sentiment.

"I respectfully disagree, Dawesy," he murmured assertively, rolling his eyes at her as they turned from the main road and approached the road beneath Molly's childhood home. Molly stiffened at the sight of old turf, already catching sight of the familiar faces of her nosey neighbours, who were already peering down over the walkway at the sight of Charles' shiny Audi approaching, noticeable in this area as it was. They had always been nosey neighbours, but since Molly had joined the army and first brought Charles home, they were considerably more inquisitive, almost as though she had become some kind of zoo animal. _God knows what they'll say when they_ know _…_ She shuddered at the thought. As she gazed out the window, she became distracted by the sight of her family standing out on the overhanging porch by the front door flying the same old welcome home sign they had used since the very first time she had come back from Afghan.

"Every time," she mumbled exasperatedly, which made Charles chuckle, a small and breathy sound. As he drew up and put the vehicle into park, Molly was so buried in her own head that she didn't notice that Charles had moved until he was at her side, opening the passenger car door with her bag in his hand. Pulling herself up, she smiled at him despite her nerves, trying to convey in the moment her eyes met his how thankful she was for him. Within moments, she was inundated by the enthusiastic shouts of her approaching youngest siblings, racing toward her loudly down the pavement. They shouted for Charles too, though they had long got into the habit of calling him 'Uncle Charlie', no matter how many times Molly had _tried_ to explain to them that that would make her their auntie.

Beside her, Charles was laughing as he greeted them, subtly guarding his crotch from impact as her youngest brother dove head first into him.

"Oi! Careful, you lot! I _might_ wanna have babies with my 'usband someday, so no diving head first at 'is Berlin Walls please!"

Charles gave her yet another look of bemusement, but this time he know precisely what the slang she used had meant and it was not the cause of his look of surprise. Her youngest brother clung to her side, nattering away about everything under the sun. She leant down and hugged him, easing his grip. "Tell mum I'll be up in a second, eh? I just need to say bye to Charlie."

As they chased back towards the stairs, already distracted, Molly turned back to Charles, a sigh of relief escaping her mouth.

"Welcome back!" Dave called from above them, friendly and loud. "Good to see them buggers din' get ya, Charles! Y'don't happen to have any beers in that bag, do ya'?"

Instantly, she rolled her eyes and moved against Charles with a groan, leaning her head against his pristine suited chest. "Why did I say I'd come back here again?" She mumbled into the fabric, sighing gratefully as she felt his arms curl around middle and her shoulders.

"Because they're your family," he whispered into the thick curtain of her hair. "And it's only for a day," he added with a ghost of a smile.

" _You're_ my family," she murmured, inhaling right into her lungs to take in the hint of his aftershave and the scent of him.

He tightened his arms around her with an iron squeeze as she said it, his throat bobbing with unexpected surge of emotion. "Ditto," he managed, successfully tugging her attention back to him as he drew back to hold her face. "What's this really about?"

Gnawing her lower lip anxiously, she felt her stomach roll with nerves. "I have to tell them, don't I?"

Charles' gave her a smile that didn't reach his eyes, a sad expression, and exhaled softly in regret. "If you're ready. You can't let a secret like this control you."

Molly hated to admit when he was right, but there was no doubting that his pragmatism was right this time. So, she nodded diligently with a gentle – and undeniably somewhat sarcastic – _'Yes sir'_. Still though, she didn't move from her spot on the pavement, holding onto him with surprising strength and conviction. He held onto her for as long as he could, but conscious of the time, he slowly eased her back after another long hug. He was struck by how over-emotional he felt as he poised the word 'goodbye' on his lips. "I'll see you tonight," he said, meaning for the phrase to be conversational and lighthearted, but somehow it came out sounding like a vow, full of promise and reverence. "I'll come and get you when I'm dismissed."

"Last time you left me on Army business, you almost didn't come back," she murmured breathlessly, her green eyes bright with the what looked to be repression of tears. Spurred on by the reminder, she closed the space between them and kissed him, catching him by surprise as he swooped his arm down to her waist to keep her steady. The touch of her lips was hard, desperation and anxiety all wrapped up in a move that should have been simple affection and he kissed back with as much certainty as he could manage. She ran her hands over the softness of his freshly shaven cheeks and pulled back only when breathing became urgent.

"I know," he said, breathless, his forehead against hers. "I'm sorry for putting you through that, but this is just a day. Politicians might be _shitheads_ but they're hardly Al Shabaab." They were both stalling and they both knew it, clinging to each others clothing and sharing each other's air. It was Molly that drew away first, hearing her dad hollering for her again over the balcony.

"Moll – you two shaggin' down there or wha'? Your old man's waitin' to see ya!"

"Yeah, alright, Dad! _Can_ it, will 'ya?" She felt herself becoming cross with frustration already as she braced herself to go back into the household of noise and chatter.

Charles cocked his head towards the stairs authoritatively, straightening his tie. "Off you pop, Dawesy. I'll be back before you know it."

She moved in the direction of the stairs dutifully, though a cheeky response was already dying on her tongue. "Say hey to Georgie for me, will' ya'?" She couldn't help but look over her shoulder and watch him go, wishing she didn't have to leave his side at all. As he climbed into the car, she found herself doubling back over there distance she had just walked until she had her hands braced on the open window. She barely had chance to take in his surprised expression before she had put her head through the window and kissed him again, holding onto the back of his neck to try and keep him there. He kissed her back with a series of firm pecks, evidently trying to ease himself away. She immediately blushed as she pulled back, realising how overtly-keen and clingy she must have looked, which was usually so unlike her…

"I really do have to go," he whispered regretfully.

"I know," she sighed glumly, having to drag herself away from him. Charles' fingers untangled from hers gradually through open window when she finally became out of reach. As they parted, he left her with his best smile and called that he loved her through the open window. She could not help but grin whenever he said it, despite the powder keg that she knew was coming.

She made her way up to her parent's house slowly, feeling more and more like she was stepping into her old self with every step, regressing backward into a world where she was a mouthy cockney with nothing to her name.

"There you are, Molls!" Her mum had her in a chokehold of a hug immediately. She then looked around Molly's shoulder expectantly. "Where's Charles buggered off to? We haven't even seen he's alive!"

Molly smiled against her shoulder, feeling relieved to be hugged in the way only her mum ever hugged her. "'e's got a day at the MOD, I told ya'. He'll be back 'ron." Suddenly, her Nan appeared from the kitchen, looking as skeptical as she always did.

"Oh, yeah? Wha's the MOD when it's at home?"

Molly laughed at her Nan's ignorance and hugged her with enthusiasm that seemed to shock the older woman.

"You poor soppy mare! How _is_ Charlie-boy? Them terrorist bastards really did pick a fight with the wrong bloke."

"You know he don't like you calling him that," Molly murmured, rolling her eyes as she moved to lean against the kitchen counter. "Anyway, I thought two minutes ago you thought _he_ was the soppy mare, _now_ he's a war hero?"

"Well, y'don't see any of _us_ gettin' kidnapped by the Taliban, do ya?"

"It weren't the Taliban, Nan," she mumbled, not even bothering to correct her fully because it wasn't as though she would remember. Reaching up into the cupboard for a teabag, she began making herself a brew.

"He's alright though, ain't 'e?"

Molly sighed, shrugging her shoulders. "Good as he can be, I think. 'is ribs were broken and shit but 'e'll be alright."

"An' what about you? Moll, sit down! _I'll_ do that!" Belinda asked, ushering her away from the kettle. "You look shattered. Have you been sleeping okay?"

"I'll be alright," Molly replied, not answering the question. "I'm just trying to look after Charlie for now, poor sod."

"Alright Molls!" Dave interrupted lowly, bouncing into the kitchen in his shirt, pants and socks. "How's ya' fella'?"

Molly rolled her eyes again, aggressively this time. "Dad, for fucks sake! 'is name is Charles! We're _married._ You could at least address him by his name!"

" _Oh,_ get you, Miss fancy-pants – all 'address one by one's name, if you'd be so kind!'" He jeered at her by rounding his vowels in his best attempt to sound like Charles, making fun of the fact that her accent had minimised in the time she had been living away from East Ham. It had slipped out in that moment, the rounded vowels and flowery words, and she had barely even noticed it.

Ignoring him, she moved into the living room without a word, concentrating instead of greeting her youngest siblings properly, allowing them her full attention. Once upon a time, she would have avoided such a thing like the plague, but now she was comforted by the banal nature of the simply act of just sitting with them to watch their favourite film for the umpteenth time. Her youngest brother, Michael, was a sweetheart of a little boy, quiet and gentle compared to the others, all of whom were loud and boisterous. He was around two and a half now and he was frightfully curious and funny, so Molly had never minded sitting and watching telly with him. Charles had pointed out he was a very bright child, watching factual programmes about animals with wide, eager eyes.

"Y'back home?" He patted the space beside him authoritatively with his little hand.

Molly smiled, settling up beside him before picking up his stuffed panda and placing him down between them.

"Yes, for now," she said quietly. "I thought I'd come see you lot, since I've been in Afghan so long."

"Where is _fgahn'stand_ , Mo-mo?" He asked, as he always asked and it made her grin as it always did.

"A long way from here." She leaned down to whisper to him like it was all one big secret. "Y'have to fly there in a big plane and it's so _hot_ it's like walkin' through a sea of _chocolate_."

Michael had developed the same dark hair that she possessed and the baby wisps of it were cut in a bad, wonky fringe that nearly got in his eyes. She couldn't help but reach out and push it away for him. He lapped up her stories with such wide-eyed delight that she couldn't help relay tale after tale for him about what it's like in a country so far away. After a while, he'd asked her if she would go the park with him, finally losing interest in her. She happily agreed, thankful for the distraction and pretended not to notice the way Belinda looked at her like she has three heads when she bounded out the door with multiple of her youngest siblings in toe.

Okay, yes, she was being utterly chicken, but she just couldn't help herself. She just couldn't stand the very thought of _that_ look, one she was seeing on so many faces these days, on _their_ faces.

When she returned from the park, Dave had gone down to the Central for a pint, for which Molly was thankful. She was exhausted from the countless relay races and games of tig she had played and took the cuppa' offered to her from Belinda, gratefully.

"What the bloody hell 'as gotten into _you?"_

 _"Naffink!"_ Molly gulped breathlessly, all too easily donning her trademark false cheer. "I just didn't realise how much I missed the little buggers."

Belinda rose her eyebrows in the way she did when Molly used to fib about going to school.

"No offence, Moll, but I ain't stupid, love," she said, which filled Molly's stomach with dread. "You look like you ain't slept a wink and you ain't ever bothered with them lot like this before." Molly suddenly found her wedding ring fascinating, turning it around and around on her finger. "An' it don't help you can't even look me in the eye! Now, _spill_ and be done with it!"

Molly felt her phone vibrate in her pocket, the arrival of a text from Charles a welcome distraction.

 _Made it back into Central in one piece,_ it read. _Going in now. Don't stress too much about telling your mum – she's your mum. She loves you so much, she'll just wish she could take it all for you… I should know! x_

"That Charlie?"

Molly nodded gently. "'e made it through the city in one piece."

"That's good," she said, settling at the table. "How is he?"

"Pretending to be okay," Molly admitted gently, sighing exasperatedly. "He always has to try and be the bloody hero, but he's been having nightmares – I know he has. He just won't ever admit he might need help, too. He only half did the other night after we had a small bloody _domestic_."

Belinda settled her chin in her hand, listening with a look of increasing concern. "Well, you did marry a ruddy soldier, love." Molly raised her eyebrows acceptingly, shrugging, because she did have a point. "You're okay bough, aren't ya? What about you?"

Molly shrugged. "I ain't been sleeping much, but I never have done after a tour." Gulping down tea, she texted with one hand a quick reply to Charles, knowing he wouldn't receive it until he was relieved for the day.

"You haven't been scrubbin' your kitchen in the middle of the night, have ya'?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "That was one time, Mum, and it was only because this place was such a pigsty!"

"Yeah, well, that's not my point and you know it!" Standing up, she moved and hugged Molly from behind, forcing the affection on her. "I just want to help ya', Moll. Tell me what's up with you. I ain't heard from you in weeks."

"I can't, Mum," she whispered, suddenly tearful. "I just can't."

"Why can't you?" She hugged her even tighter. "C'mon, let me help. I'm ya' mum!"

The panic that rose in her throat even as she simply thought of saying the words, much less managing to voice them. She scrunched her hand into the jumper she wore, the only way to exert the sudden stress she could feel building inside her. "Because then everyone will know," she whispered, "and God bloody knows what Dad will say—!"

"—Forget ya' dad!" she asserted with a wave of her hand. "It's hardly the first time we've had secrets from 'im, eh? Us girls gotta' stick together!" Her tone was the forcefully encouraging kind which Molly knew to mean she was scrambling for a solution.

Molly was quiet, fretting and gnawing at her non-existent nails, equally desperate to speak as she was to keep everything locked within. She looked up through her lashes and stared hard into her mother's face, pleading with her not to ask and wishing she could suddenly become telepathic. When no sign of realisation crossed her features, Molly sighed, sniffing back her tears despite the fact her throat still ached painfully with all those she had yet to shed.

"You can't tell," she said, feeling her resolve waning. "You have to promise."

"Course!" Belinda was kneeling at her feet, gripping her hands to stop her fiddling. "Moll, you're scarin' me. What happened? Did you have to kill someone again? I thought you were only training people now—?"

" _No_ ," she denied, struggling not to lose her grip on her steady tone. "It's... _shit_ , it's so much worse, Mum."

"Bloody hell," Belinda whispered, pulling at her hands. "What is it, Molly? What did you _do?"_

 _"Naffink!"_ she replied, quiet and desolate. "That's the thing. I didn't fight hard enough and I should have, Mum! I should have fought—!" She was just so tired, so weary from carrying around the weight of this new all-consuming secret.

Belinda began tidying up the counter-top, stress-cleaning, as she put her own empty mug in the sink. Molly could tell her concern was beginning to give way to a miniscule trace of impatience. "Moll, you ain't making sense—?"

 _"—I'm trying to_ , Mum!" She cried, suddenly loud and frustrated. She pressed her hand to her forehead, trying to remember to inhale steadily, as the ghost of Lawrence breathed down her neck.

"Wha's all this yappin' about, then?" Her Nan's loud question came before she had fully even entered the kitchen, no doubt expecting the reason of the loud voices to be Dave in his underpants. Therefore, when she took in her granddaughter's defeated posture over the kitchen table, eyes down, what followed was a rare kind of quiet. "Wha's happened, Molly love?" She settled at the table and pulled a chair round to as close to Molly as she could get, pulling her head up. Molly could feel the last of her strength waning as her Nan's fiery eyes bore into hers, demanding answers. "It ain't Charlie, is it? Didn't he just drop you off this morning? I thought I saw his shiny motor down by the bridge."

"It's not Charles," she whispered easily, rushing to dash the tears from her eyes. "It's me." She felt the responsibility of the truth more tangible than the weight of her entire kit combined, weighing down on her chest. "Something happened... on tour... It's bad." As the reality of the gravity of the situation seemed to finally set in, Belinda stopped nervously folding tea towels and stood as quiet and still as Molly imagined a deer in headlights would. It was her Nan who of course broke through the silence first, undeterred.

"Go on, spit it out. Did someone hurt ya, or did you hurt them? 'Cause I'm sure I seen worse in either case."

There was a tremor in Molly's next breath. "My Commanding Officer," she whispered, trying to take a gulp of tea but finding that her hands trembled too much.

"The one you said was a cock?" Belinda interjected, suddenly finding her voice again. "Did he hurt ya'?!" Suddenly, she was angry. "I'll bloody kill 'im. Just you say the word, Molls, and I swear—!"

"— _Mum_ ," she pleaded, hopeful for quiet. She was so tired of the anger and the melodrama. All she wanted was some peace... even if it meant that everyone knew. "Please calm down."

"But he _did_ hurt ya?"

Molly didn't need to answer; her silence was enough. Both women gathered around her and held her hands hard as she bowed her head, her chin against her breastbone as she quietly allowed herself to cry. "He... He forced himself on me... and I couldn't fight him off," she confessed after a long moment, though the words were warped in pitch through her tears. "I tried but he's a soldier so he was fucking _strong—!"_

 _"Hey, now, no need for that bollocks,"_ her Nan ordered, ushering Belinda to make more tea. "A man bein' frisky with his pecker ain't never the woman's bloody fault, so don't you go sayin' it is." Molly nearly cowered under the authority with which the older woman spoke, feeling ashamed that she did indeed feel as though she was to blame. She settled against her chest in a tight hug that went on and on until a fresh pot of tea was made.

"Crack out the good biscuits, Belinda, love," she murmured as she encouraged Molly to sit up and drink the fresh tea. Molly was silent now, her tears exhausted, using up all the tissues that her Nan had pulled from her handbag.

"Where's Charles with his 'andkerchief when you need 'em, eh?" Belinda joked, settling back at the table.

Molly couldn't help but smile as she was reminded of the way Charles always carried a handkerchief; a military regulation so ingrained from his father that he put a fresh one into his pocket each day with the same ease of he put on his watch. She had teased him for weeks when she had first found out upon her first few days staying with him, asking him if he had always been a character from Jane Austen films or if he was just putting it on to impress her.

He had promptly kissed her hard enough to make her lose her breath completely, grinning wickedly at the flush of her cheeks and the look of surprise on her face. _I'm not always well-mannered, Dawesy,_ he had whispered into her ear, his voice filled with filthy promise. They had ended up entirely tangled on his picnic blanket in the park, enjoying the wonderful sunshine of the early summer and giggling like teenagers.

"I've lost count of the amount of times he has leant me one of those damn hankies," she laughed, rubbing her eyes. "Though usually it's 'cuz I'm blubbering some bloody charity advert when I'm on my period," she mumbled, "not over shit like this."

"He _does_ know, don'he?" Belinda was still restless in her chair, which made Molly even more weary to get the entire conversation over with.

"'Course he does!" Molly tried her best not to sound cross, but she was just so _tired._ "I was so worri'd I'd never get to tell him..."

"Enough of that," her Nan retorted with a flick of an uninterested hand. "You did and that's that. No need to dwell on shit what's past."

Molly rubbed her nose and shrugged, all to eager to agree with that sentiment.

"'ow is the poor geez dealing with it?"

Molly swallowed and focused hard, trying to dismantle all she had observed of her husband in the short time they had been home. "Like I said – he's pretending he isn't 'avin' nightmares, despite the fact they wake us both up somethin' frightful. Honest though Nan, I'm not sure even he knows 'ow he is." Looking down at her phone, she pressed the button to awaken it and took in the sight of the lovely picture of he and Sam that greeted her: bright, sunny and carefree. "He's just so used to lookin' after other people... I don't think he _knows_ how to look after himself."

"He's a good 'un," she replied softly, which rose a lump of a different kind in Molly's throat and made her smile. After all, the last person her Nan had bestowed with the same such compliment had been Smurf, back when they all thought she was sweet on him. "But ya' right; 'e's a typical posh bloke. Won't go to the bloody doctor even if 'is leg's 'angin' off!"

Molly could not help herself; she smirked and threw her grandmother a sideward glance. "What would _you_ know about posh blokes?"

"My Gerald was from 'ammersmith, I'll have you know!"

Molly doubled over, tickled at yet more details about this mystery man that her Nan supposedly could have had, had her Grandad's Triumph Herald have not 'tempted her away'. Belinda was giggling too, which did not please the older woman by the looks of her expression.

"Hammersmith is hardly Buckingham bloody Palace, Nan," Molly giggled, but secretly intrigued by this other life that her grandmother could almost have had.

"Yeah, well, you would know!"

Molly quietened at that, struck with a bout of humble pie. She truly _was_ fortunate to have made it out of Newham, never-mind into the arms of a man like Charles in places as lovely and peaceful as Aldershot and Bath. She knew how lucky she was and there was not a day when she let herself forget it. One look into the depth of Charles' kind eyes and it was all she could do not to scream it aloud from the roof.

"It hits me like a fuckin' _train_ sometimes—," she murmured, shaking her head, "—how lucky I am." She caught sight of a photograph from her wedding on the wall out in the hallway and felt a violent surge in her chest, as she did every time she thought back to that day. "Which is why all this is so mad, init? Because now I just feel…" She struggled with her words, balling her hands against her thighs, "… _different_." The two women were quiet, evidently unsure what to say next. "Wha' if I never feel normal again, Nan? Surely, poor Charles ain't gonna' want a wife who jumps at the shadows of shadows an' can't even bring herself to have a shag––."

"—Oh Moll," Belinda sighed, pulling at her hand. "He's your _'usband_ and 'e's such a gentle soul, in'he? He's probably so worried sick about you, he ain't thought about something as bloody trivial as sex, surely?" Belinda gave her the smile she always gave when she was trying to make her smile. "Besides, all that bloody shaggin' lark ain't always what it's cracked up to be!"

Molly had to bite her lip to keep from blurting out the truth, because she wanted to scream it, what she knew, that was no doubt a truth that her mother would never know in her own life: that if you were lucky, so incredibly lucky, sex _could be_ all that, if the emotional connection between two people was strong enough.

With Charles at least, Molly could recall her soul feeling so entwined with him that she lost track of where she finished and he began.

So, she didn't tell them how she _missed_ Charles all the time, even when he was right in front of her, all because she couldn't bring her body to take him inside her now. She didn't tell them that she dreamed in shades of choking, silent terror and torturing, hot nostalgia in equal measure, or how Charles was clearly becoming more and more tightly wound with each day that passed without sex. She didn't tell them because she didn't know how. She was only just realising it all herself.

So instead, just just said: "The court appearance date is set for the 17th… I'll have to face him then." She was proud of herself that this time her voice didn't shake. "Just… don't tell dad, alright?"

After that, she had spent the rest of the cold, grey day on the sofa with her youngest siblings and since it was a weekend, they were all too happy to sit and watch Frozen or whatever bollocks it was they had already seen a hundred, million times. Strangely though, it didn't bother her this time as watched them sing and dance around, interspersed with drawing and chattering. Instead, she enjoyed watching their wide-eyed innocence and she found herself praying to no God in particular, if any at all, that they could stay that way, that they may never grow up to realise how cruel the world could be.

– x –

Charles was shattered by the time he made it on foot from East Ham tube station to Molly's parents' house, having spent the entire day uprooting memories he had hoped, wrongly or rightly, to keep buried. He had stripped himself of his tie, as Molly had warned him to if he was going anywhere in this area on foot, and had pulled on his regulation Army raincoat to hide what was left of his nice suit. The last thing he needed was to get jumped when his entire reasoning for returning was to accompany Molly and make her feel safe.

As he climbed the steps to Belinda and Dave's flat, he was struck by how quiet it seemed, having become accustomed to the entire abode being filled to the he brim with excitable children, all but one under twelve. He knocked quietly, popping his head around the door as he let himself in. Belinda was on her way to the door to meet him.

"There 'e is!" she greeted, her voice uncharacteristically soft as she reached for him, pressing a firm, affectionate kiss on his cheek. He quickly and gladly returned the gesture as he pressed his lips against hers in return. He had always been fond of both the strong women in Molly's family since the day he met them, even if they had been suspicious and sceptical of his motives in the beginning. He could hardly blame them, with Molly's record.

"I knew 'em buggers wouldn't make curtains of ya!" She pulled back and took in his face in the way his own mother had before ushering him into the kitchen through the small corridor, still speaking very quietly. "Tea?"

He was about to decline, as was habit since he had never been a tea drinker, but he suddenly realised he was very cold and could use a steaming beverage to wake up his hands. Molly's Nan moved across the tiny kitchen to kiss his cheek and pat his other cheek, ever the typical grandparent.

"Thank god you ain't bit the dust yet," she said, which made him laugh. "I du'no about this lot but life would be a lot duller without you to laugh at my jokes when no one else does." Charles chuckled, all too aware of the kind of inappropriate comments she was referring to, (which were usually made at family gatherings). "That an' I'm not sure our Moll would have survived it."

Suddenly, all the light-hearted fun over the reunion disappeared and all three adults could see a brief bleakness in one another's eyes, all knowing how it got there. In an instant, Charles knew by the look the two women briefly shared before him that they now knew of Molly's horrific secret, because he recognised the inability to digest it or desire to do so as the same thing he saw when he looked in a mirror.

"I certainly wouldn't," he agreed, humbly. " – had the the shoe been on the other foot." Bowing his head and lowering his eyes, he was struck by how vulnerable such a comment made him feel. Belinda's mother said her goodbyes, telling him she only stayed late to see him safe before giving him a squeeze, which he took with enthusiasm. As she pulled him in, he heard her whisper, "Take care of our girl. She needs ya'." He gave her a mini suite nod and another kiss. He moved to ask Belinda where Molly was, only for her to speaks of soft squeak of distress, suddenly pressing her hand to her mouth and then over her eyes. Charles felt his heart race in response, never particularly good with coping when women were in tears, though he automatically got to his feet and rushed over to her. Her eyes told him the same story that he felt inside his chest: a sense of dread mingled with helplessness, floundering for a certainty, a solution.

"I'm sorry!" She gasped in a whispered, evidently trying to push all trace of the emotion back. Immediately he shook his head, about to ask her what she could possibly feel the need to apologise for, when she carried on. "I just... She's my l'le girl, even though she's grown now. It feels like she's still a part of me, my oldest, y'know... and to know someone could—that that _monster_ _did_ —."

As seemed customary or perhaps habitual with such a horrific topic, she cut herself off, not seeming to be able to finish for fear of visualising it all too clearly. Charles quietened her, hushing the way he often did with Molly and pulling her into his tight hold. She only cried for a few moments before she snapped upright, seeming to realise what she was doing. Charles smoothed his hands over her back and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket for her to wipe her eyes. She laughed at the sight of it.

"We were just sayin' today, 'what we do without you and your 'ankies," she sniffed, narrowing her kind eyes at him. He often saw his wife in those eyes; they had the same open display of internal emotions and could most certainly pin you against the nearest wall if you were subjected to a very particular glare.

He smiled politely, pouring the tea she had left on the countertop and handing her a cup before taking one himself to warm his hands. The skin of his palms prickled with the heat. She went to hand the handkerchief back to him, but, ever the gentleman, he offered it for her to keep. Secretly, he suspected she might need it again before the night was through.

"Molly claims you chat her ear off," Belinda said, watching him closely. "But y' very quiet today."

Charles swallowed the piping hot liquid and focused on it as he felt it warm his insides as it went down. He caught sight of his wedding ring and gazed at it a moment, now in its rightful place on his left hand. "I suppose I'm lost for words to say," he muttered, trying to make sense of his sudden emotional absence. "It's just..." He took a deep breath. "You hear about it happening – the statistics: ' _So and so number of women are assaulted a year'_. We all know it happens but you just never _think_ —." His voice was low, aware of the young souls in the house that might be listening and chose his words carefully. "You never think it will happen to the women in your life – not when you're the kind of man who would _never_ — _could_ never..." He lowers his head, rubbing his eyes tiredly and falling silent. "I wasn't _there_. I couldn't be there to... to _stop_ him and I think the not-knowing and what-if of it all will haunt me forever."

His was surprised when he looked up and felt his mother-in-law's hands on his wrists where he held the mug. She was looking at him with that same sudden belief and certainty that he often saw in Molly's eyes. "This might be 'ard for you hear," she whispered. "But on that day, she... weren't ours to save."

He frowned, trying to understand her words. She was his _wife,_ after all. How _couldn't_ she be his responsibility to look after, as _he_ was _hers_?

"Look, you're a soldier, so you lot are always gonna feel like if you'd only been there, maybe you could 'ave done som'ing." Charles felt emotion rise in his throat like vomit and he had to clamp him lips shut to keep it at bay. Belinda's dark eyes searched his, pleading with him to try and understand.

"But maybe I _could_ have!" He argued his point stubbornly, knowing he was being nonsensical but unable to face the fact that the fury in his chest was manufactured out of guilt, not a need for justice. "If I'd _just_... If I'd paid more _attention_ when she had talked about him. If I'd, I don't know, looked _into_ him when she said he was being a dickhead. If I'd pushed her into talking. _Maybe_ —."

"Y'll drive yourself _bananas_ with all them maybes," she sighed. "The fact of the matter is: the world we live in tells girls to fear men who 'ide in the shadows down the pub and yet don' bother tellin' the men not to jump out at women because their skirts might be short." Tea forgotten, she shook her head. "There was as _much_ chance of this happenin' to her round the corner of your gaff while you were just five hundred metres away than there was of it happenin' when you was across the world." The lump in Charles throat had now rendered him dumb, as he no longer trusted himself to speak. "An' Molly knows it," Belinda added, her tone grave. "No _wonder_ she's bloody terrified. She's probably seeing for the first time just how common it all is for girls like her."

Charles felt his world shift ever so slightly as he attempted to digest the blunt truth being given to him. It was one that reminded him how privileged, and therefore by ignorant he was by default, on what it must be like: to be frightened of every shape and shadow that resembled a stranger just because it was dark out and you were small in size or showing off your legs. _He_ had taught to walk along the street with belief in his _right_ to be there... as much as any man. All too suddenly, the phrase stuck him. _As much as any... man._

The saying never did say 'woman', did it?

Not once did had he ever had to reconsider the route he took or whether or not someone would leap out of him because of the clothing he wore. Not once did he look at a stranger accidentally in the eye across a bar try and feel _fear_ when their gaze burned with unrequited lust.

"No wonder," he whispered under his breath, reeling with a new perspective and watching as Belinda banished her tears with a nervous laugh, stepping back to pick up her tea again. "Where is she?"

"Out for the count on the sofa with Mikey, last I looked. The little buggers have been running her in circles all day."

Charles gently smiled at the mental image and moved through the small space to peer through the door into the living room. Sure enough, Molly was curled up with Michael and James, her two youngest siblings, fast asleep, as the television played to itself. The sound of others could be heard making noise in their rooms above. Slowly, he moved into the room and lowered himself to press a kiss to her head. She immediately roused upon the contact, looking momentarily confused as to where she was and why she was pinned against the sofa by the weight of a child. Charles loved it when she looked like this, all mused up with sleep and confused. It always took her a good while to become chatty again, though being in the Army, she was instantly awake if and when she was woken.

"Ready to go?" he whispered, smoothing her hair from her eyes. She gave him a soft, weary smile and he revelled in the butterflies it still awoke in his chest.

"If I can get away," she replied, looking down at her sleeping brother. Slowly, she moved him into her place on the sofa, cringing when he almost woke up. He very often cried when she left, always asking if she was going away to _'Afganstand'_ again. James, Molly's eight year old brother, woke and blinked at Charles, momentarily seeming to wonder where he was. Charles instantly put his finger to his lips.

"Mikey's asleep," he whispered to him, reaching to smooth his hair.

"I gotta' go now, mate," she whispered to James, reaching to ruffle his hair as she stood up. "We'll see you at Christmas, yeah?"

"Will Sam be there?" James asked quietly, rubbing his eyes.

"Of course," Charles smiled, always warmed by the way the younger of Molly's siblings all loved Sam and visa versa. "It's Christmas dinner at the James' – everyone will be there."

Charles moved into the hall to find Molly piling on her winter layers, preparing for the cold.

"Tell Mikey I said bye, alright?" Molly looked guiltily over her mother's shoulder towards the living room as she hugged her goodbye. "I hope he don't give you too much grief when he realises I'm gone."

"He'll be alrigh'," Belinda replied warmly, smoothing a hand over her daughter's cheek. "It's bloody Christmas in three weeks, so I'll be too excited for Father Christmas to miss ya'." She went to hug her daughter again and Charles saw the fervent look in her eyes as she pulled back. He also took note of the way Molly seemed to want to shy away from the attention. " _You'll_ be alright, won'ya?"

Molly gave her a squeeze before backing away, her hand searching for Charles' before she even turned toward him. He took and squeezed before moving to kiss Belinda goodbye.

Catching her eye as he pulled back, he wanted to say so much, but Molly's presence held him back. He wasn't sure she would like the idea that they spoke about what happened to her without her knowledge. "Thank you for the tea," he said instead, imploring her to see through the comment with his eyes.

 _"Tea?!"_ Molly echoed behind him, so bemused it made him want to laugh. The momentary severity between the two disappointed as Charles had to fight not to laugh. "Mum, how did you manage to make 'im drink _tea_?"


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: Hey y'all,_

 _So, while I officially looking for my next job, I've been working on this... I fear it might feel like a bit of a non-chapter to those of us (me) who love angst and drama, but, I don't know, it felt like something that's needed, since I've been ignoring trying to write CJ for long enough. (His character intimidates me and I don't think I'll ever feel confident with writing his character since he's, you know, the best...)_

 _Also, massive shoutout to The Man, Tony Grounds, for making these characters I love so much... and for making my week with an incredibly generous email. What a cool dude he is._

 _Anyways, please review and give your insights because I feel like I really need them, pretty please!_

 _LOVE & HUGS, _

_Stars Walk Backward_

* * *

 _"If you're anything like me,  
There's a justice system in your head  
_ _For names you'll never speak again,  
_ _And you make your ruthless rulings._

 _Each new enemy turns to steel  
_ _They become the bars that confine you,  
_ _In your own little golden prison cell..._

 _But Darling, there is where you meet yourself."_

 **–– _"If you're anything like me,"_ \- Taylor Swift**

* * *

 **XXI**

* * *

Charles watched Molly closely as they made their way back into Central London. As they hurried through the cold toward Upton Park tube, mercifully only six minute walk, Charles was conscious of his wife's incredibly hurried walking pace. He was long used to consciously checking his stride as she often complained his 'daddy long legs' meant he left her being dragged behind him, but suddenly she was charging ahead, her eyes set forward in a determined fashion. He held her as tightly as he could, aware of her nerves by her unnaturally stiff posture as he held her tightly around her shoulders. She held onto him with both her hands, one around his middle, latched into his belt loop, while the other loosely held onto his jacket. Reeling from his discussion with Belinda, he was on edge just by seeing how on edge _she_ was. Luckily their time in the dark was short lived and they soon met the strangely comforting bright lights of the station. It was only then that he let her go, and even then, he did so mostly out of necessity in order to get through the ticket gates.

They rushed into the incoming District Line train which was uncomfortably stuffy in comparison to the chill of the outdoors. Taking a seat beside Molly, Charles was pleased to see the train was quiet and relatively deserted, bar the odd few people scattered throughout. Still though, Molly made a conscious choice to sit at the very end of the train, despite the fact there were many lining the carriage that were closer. It confused him momentarily, until he noticed the way she sat sideways in the seat with her back to the wall and it occurred to him that she might just be doing so to avoid the chance of a stranger sitting beside her, or sneaking up on her from behind. The thought stirred her stomach with unease and a deep-seated fury that she should have cause to _be_ so paranoid about her own personal safety in the first place.

Immediately, he moved to hold her against him, an ingrained instinct he did almost without consideration. She leant her forehead against his collarbone, leaning over the armrest that separated them with the quiet affection of a loyal house cat.

"Okay?" he murmured, watching her tired features smile at him with half-closed eyes.

"Hearts and rainbows, me," she murmured, ever cheery and sarcastic. "What about you?" She reached over and stroked her hand down his cheek, her colourful deep green eyes watching him intently. He kissed her head with a renewed vigour, grateful and touched by her automatic urge to care for him.

"It was not the greatest of days, reliving all of that," he admitted softly, smoothing his hand over hers where her other held his against his knee. "But I just missed you, most of all," he added against her ear, feeling his cheeks warm a fraction at the confession. She sighed out a noise of humour and tilted her head back up to look at him, her eyes round with an air of surprise and modesty, even after all this time.

"Soft fool," she scoffed gently, though she leant into him all the same.

"And proud of it," he whispered unashamedly, lowering his face to meet hers, flicking his eyes over her features, unable to keep from glancing at her lips. He tried his best not to be distracted by the soft curve of her breast against his arm as she leaned upward to meet him, but the more he tried not to think about it, the more he inevitably did. Her lips were still chilled from the cold as they touched his; the first time intended to be light while the second lingered. He pushed his hands, now gloveless, into her hair, loose and silky against his partially calloused fingers and she sighed against his face as he pulled back enough to look over her again. He felt foolish with just _how_ worked up he could get just by the most chaste of kisses, his chest feeling tight with a pressure that was becoming more and more prevalent since the day he came back from the dead for the second time, as he saw it. He just wanted to be with her all the time, but more than that, he almost wanted to _consume_ her with the amount of love he felt in his chest. The urge to hold her so close that she felt like a part of him, or too tightly and never let go, were vastly becoming so strong that it frightened him. Was this normal, to be so _all-consumed_ by a marriage and to be completely content with said fact? He wasn't sure, but he was hardly one to complain, considering the state of his first.

"Are you sure you're alright? You've been crying," he whispered, a thumb stroking the delicate skin under her eye that was swollen with the tell-tale signs of past tears. One eye always got slightly more puffy than the other, he noticed.

"Yeah, well, it's becoming far too bloody normal these days," Molly sighed, sounding impatient as she pulled back enough to self-consciously touch her face and wipe beneath her eyes, just in case. Her felt the loss of her close contact acutely, his body almost reaching straight back to her instinctually. "Anyway, don' you try and change the subject, mate. How did it go? Did they find him?"

He sighed, instantly thinking of the very man he had been trying to bury in his mind. He didn't want to think of Abu and the danger he could pose, or the fact that, _no_ , they hadn't found him yet and as a result he had made it into the country under a false passport. The MoD had no idea what he was even travelling for or what he could be targeting, but Charles was willing to bet that he was not all too keen to have two British soldiers walking around who could identify him.

"Can we discuss it later?" He felt himself shutting down almost automatically, emotionally detaching after years of practice and ingrained habitual behaviour. He raised his eyes to look around him at the sparsely populated train, focusing momentarily on the young men just a few seats away. "I'm shattered and I'm not even supposed to talk about it. You know that."

Molly swallowed and seemed to accept this answer, though her body language indicated she was not comfortable with it; she was unaccustomed to being on the outside, after all. In an attempt to pacify her, he made an effort to be attentive, to reach for her hand and get her to smile by catching her eye. Usually, she could never keep a straight face when he gave her the eye, but today she managed only a weak smile. It made him uneasy. "How do you feel after telling Belinda?" Immediately, she dropped her face into her hands against the armrest, though only momentarily, heaving a heavy sigh that leant itself to emotional exhaustion.

"Relieved… I _think?"_ Pulling herself upright again, she let his hands reach out to comfort her, pushing into her hair to cradle her at the nape of her neck. He wanted to be able to see her expressions change, or so he told himself; in reality he simply craved to be as close to her as he could be and he hadn't the faintest idea how to express it. When their eyes met, Molly, being as inherently joyful as she was, smiled at him as though she was trying to make him smile – as though _she_ was trying to cheer _him_ up despite her own mammoth emotional downturn. "And?" He nudged her toward opening up, partially because he was curious, but mostly because he was unnerved by her sudden quiet.

"And… I don't know what else," she struggled, rubbing her forehead before kissing his hand when he moved to touch the skin between her brows she had just made pink. "Fuck, I du'know. I'm… _all over the shop_." Her tone is small, confused, and it threw him right back to their first date when she had said those exact words to him.

"Ditto," he whispered after a moment, because what else could he say?

She leaned into the gap between them and came to rest her head against his shoulder again. He brought his hand to the back of her neck, drawing aimless patterns where the soft, downy baby hairs met her slightly chilled, tanned skin. He could feel her breathe a sigh of relief against him and it was such a soft, delicate sound, he had to close his eyes against the barrage of yearning it dragged, guttural and desperate, from deep in his belly. As though reading his mind, she leaned back only just enough to graze his jawline with her nose.

"I bloody missed you too, by the way," she whispered and he would have taken her as being lighthearted and nonchalant if it wasn't for the way her hand still gripped one of his in a hold that felt like a vice.

"Sorry about that," he murmured back, keeping his voice so low that only she could hear as he made himself keep still, though his eyes were fixed on her. "How did we ever cope, _before_?" he asked, thinking back to the days when she went away for nearing six months before they got engaged. He had found it incredibly difficult, but mostly do because he wasn't the one going with her, but the one left behind. Now, it wasn't a matter of pride, just a guttural need to see she was safe with his own eyes, every minute of the day.

Molly seemed to return his sentiment, because she looked to be remembering those days too, a thoughtful tug dipping her brow. "I ain't got a Scooby, mate."

He smiled lazily at her slang and felt a wave of affection so sudden and so intense that it drove him drove his movements for him. Turning his head, he kissed her, the feeling of their skin ghosting against each other raising the hair on his arms. "We're both soft fools," he whispered against her cheek.

"Yeah, but _I'm_ a mess at the moment," she whispered, a smile playing on her lips as she deliberately held herself back from his reach by mere centimetres. She always did enjoy teasing him. "What's _your_ excuse… _sir_?"

The sound of his title falling from her lips that way reminded him of all the times it used to, especially back when their relationship was new and exciting. It had been their dirty little secret…

"We both know I wasn't soft until I met you," he whispered dryly, never once moving his hand from where it drew patterns on her skin. He noticed that when he got particularly close to the velvet skin behind her ear, her lashes would flutter and her head automatically leaned into his touch. She looked at him for a moment, possibly contemplating this statement, before reaching up her hand to ruffle his trimmed curls, breaking the tension that had hung between them.

"Y'can believe that if you want, mate, but your mum – _and_ Elvis – has told me otherwise… _and_ are you forgetting that Netflix film incident?"

He rolled his eyes and bit his lip. Of course he had not forgotten; Molly had never let him live it down. "It's a film about a man whose wife is _dying!"_ he defended defiantly, tightening her hold on her just a fraction. "How would you _have_ me react?" Usually romantic films didn't affect him because he never had time to watch anything, besides the classic films his mother always put on over Christmas, but in this instance, Molly had coerced him with promise of stolen kisses and more, once it was over. They had just gotten engaged and she had been just about to away on another medical exercise, this time to assist with the outbreak of Ebola across Central and East Africa, and his mind had made unwelcome comparisons. The wife character died, as per the premise, slowly and quietly in her sleep while the husband was non the wiser.

Charles could still recall, thinking back on it, the way the husband had planned a party, painstakingly down to every detail, as a way of trying to keep her going and yet, she died before it could take place, of course. The film made a point in the husband's narration that it never going to be one of _those_ films, because those kind of 'just-in-time' moments did not happen in real life. 'They were just for cancer movies'.

While cancer and Ebola could not have been more dissimilar… it had gotten to him, because while Molly did not have cancer, she was about to travel to a place where she could catch a disease that could kill her in a _hundredth_ of the speed with ten times the aggression. Suffice to say, by the end of the two hours, he couldn't help but see Molly in the brunette actress onscreen, despite the fact she was an entirely opposite body type and had an American accent to boot. It was just in the way she held herself with fierce dignity, spending the entire plot trying to find the person that her husband could love when she was gone; _caring_ entirely for him almost obsessively, to avoid her own blinding fear. He supposed it was the selfless, forceful behaviour that did the other character's heads in that felt so incredibly familiar.

He had gazed over Molly, who had been chomping on popcorn beside him _oblivious_ , and suddenly he realised just how lucky he was… and just how much he had to lose.

It was then, _just_ as a tear slipped from the corner of his eye of course, that Molly turned to look at him. While she had given him the softest looks of empathy and love at the time, wiping it away as he cleared his throat with embarrassment, enough time soon passed for her to tease him about it. After all, shit-talking was any Cockney's speciality and he certainly loved them for it… most of the time.

Molly sniggered but once again seemed to take pity on him, smoothing hand hand over his face and bringing him back to the present. He managed to smile at her, pushing the morbid thoughts away.

"I never thought I'd be the mushy sod at the end of the tube train who's snogging like a fuckin' pre-teen," she whispered, looking down at where he held her hand and back up at him from beneath her dark lashes.

Charles smirked, before quirking his brow at her. "What _pre-_ teens did you grow up with?"

Molly gave him a deadpan expression as though he had asked her the most obvious of questions. "I think we both know the answer to that, mate."

Pressing his lips together thoughtfully, he looked around them for a moment. Images of Molly as a wayward, promiscuous youth were inevitable as his imagination began to do its best to fill this gap in his knowledge. Of course she had told him of her rather early sexual experimentations – much earlier than his own began, since he went to an all boys boarding school – but it didn't stop him from being intrigued as to the kind of girl she used to be, before the discipline of the army and the life-changing horrors of war. " _Snogging,_ hm?" He instantly regretted the topic diversion, but the banter between them was so easy he very often didn't even know what he was going to say until it came out… and ribbing her for her vernacular was just _too_ easy. "I don't see us… _snogging,_ do you?" His tongue was quite literally in his cheek as he watched her try not to look at him so she wouldn't laugh. He was peering down at her, daring her to prove him wrong, but she didn't give in.

"How are you after this morning?" He tried his best to make the question light and nonchalant.

"Not okay," she whispered against his shirt, the words so quiet and fragile that he momentarily thought he had misheard her, but he knew, watching her uncharacteristically defeatist body language and the way she didn't even move to catch his eye. He asked because he knew he had to ask… but he knew. He had to pretend he didn't feel the weight of her hand on his thigh for the entire rest of the journey, because it wasn't right that he be distracted by her now, not when she needed him.

By there time they reached the Victory Services at Marble Arch, having changed at Stratford with a minute to spare, Charles was inwardly worried by how quiet they were both being but he was too exhausted to confront it. As he checked them in, Molly smiled at the doorman but otherwise lulled against the counter, staring into space and squinting in the harsh fluorescent light of the sleek white foyer. He pressed his palm to the small of her back to guide her to the lift; it was a somewhat patriarchal habit of his but she never once protested it.

"Bleedin' Nora, I'm _knackered_ ," she groaned as he held open their hotel room door for her. He watched her roll her neck as she stripped off her layers and it momentarily stalled him in his tracks against the door. She was rubbing her lower abdomen as she moved across the room on autopilot to switch on the kettle.

"Tell me about it," he mumbled in agreement, watching her as she pushed her fist up beneath her vest into the soft flesh just inward from her protruding hipbone and massaged there. The grimace on her face was so microscopic that it would have been missed, had he not been watching her so keenly. He had seen the signs before. Seemingly realising this moments after he did, she frowned and moved with purpose to the en-suite bathroom. He busied himself unpacking his bag meticulously, which he had dropped off that morning, and when he was done with that he did the same with Molly's, glancing at the ten o'clock news . He glanced toward the bathroom door more times than he could count and it was only after he had folded both their clothes into the drawers that he gave in to his gut feeling. Grabbing the desk phone, he dialled for reception.

"Good evening. How can I help you?"

Clearing his throat, Charles thumbed Molly's phone where she had left it on the side. "Yes, hello, good evening. This is Captain James, calling from 207," he greeted, keeping his voice soft so Molly would not hear him. "Could we have some toiletries bought up, please? My wife is in need of some sanitary products." The sharp, professional female voice on the phone softened immediately to Charles' well-trained ear. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought she was trying to communicate her approval as she chirped her obedient affirmation. He put down the phone and forced himself to try and relax, stretching his arms upward until he felt something in his back give a satisfying 'pop'. Picking up the non-fiction book he had been carrying around with him for weeks about the psychology of lying, he settled down to at least attempt to actually read for once. Glancing at his watch, he noted the time and then proceeded to allow himself to settle against the headboard and attempt to pick up where he had left off, thumbing the pages delicately as he turned each one with care. (Molly had joked with him on numerous occasions that he cared for his books with more tenderness than he did with her, which he emphatically denied). He was just getting into the swing of a enthralling paragraph explaining why children under four cannot lie when the concierge knocked on the door. Glancing at his watch, he was pleased to see it had only taken them eight minutes. Not too bad.

Thanking the young man who handed over the toiletry packets politely, he gave the boy a tip and sent him on his way. It wasn't exactly customary to do so, especially in a Services establishment, but Charles felt better for doing it. That and the poor boy looked slightly mortified to be handing over a bag of tampons to an officer, by the way he couldn't meet Charles eye. Closing the door, he couldn't help but chuckle to himself, remembering the days long ago when menstrual cycles were one of the many mysteries surrounding women that he thought he would never understand, much less come to find _normal_ or remotely predictable. But, as his mother had told him all those years ago, much to his embarrassment, " _all that changes when you're married"_.

Gently knocking his knuckles against the bathroom door, he strained automatically to listen for any sign of movement. He was not entirely sure, but he momentarily thought he could hear sniffling. "Molly?" His anxiety picked up a little again at the prospect that she might be crying and keeping it from him. "Are you alright? Please open up."

He heard her move across the small bathroom, blowing her nose. "Who was at the door?" She asked, opening the door just wide enough for her to squeeze her face through and nothing else. She was now wearing one of the towel dressing gowns and her hair was loose and damp. Her eyes were lined with red again and her hand was filled with tissue.

"I got you something," he said, keeping his voice soft as he handed over the unbranded tampon packets without explanation. "You okay?"

She looked down at it, seeming a little struck dumb momentarily, until suddenly she took it gladly and bestowed him with what he considered to be the world's most beautiful and heartbreaking smile. "'ow the fuck do you _do_ that? Swear you're psychic…" If she was aiming for bravado, it didn't work. They both pretended they didn't hear the way her voice cracked emotionally.

"It just looked like you were having cramps, so I assumed…"

Molly squinted at him, whatever was upsetting her momentarily forgotten as she looked at him in disbelief. "Y'know _this_ is why people don' invite us for dinner. It ain't normal to know your wife that well!"

Charles rolled his eyes and bopped his nose with his before backing up to give her space. "I think you'll find they don't invite us over because you called half of them 'Tory meatheads'."

She spluttered out her usual stubborn noise of defiance and he wrinkled his nose in amusement. "Well, they _were_!" He moved back towards the bed, until suddenly she called him back. "Charlie?" He stepped back into line leaving against the doorframe, taking in her bare face and the rosey hue of her skin, no doubt flushed from the shower, and he only just managed to hold himself back. She looked at him with green eyes that communicated so much gratitude in that moment, her teeth pulling her lower lip into her mouth as though she was holding back. "Just… _thanks millions_ ," was all she said, holding up the tampons as though they were a treasure trove.

He shook it off, mostly because it felt entirely insignificant and routine for him to do such a thing, but also because he was a little flushed under her admiration. So, typically, he threw her a minuscule wink and told her not to mention it, moving back to the bed to read his book again, only now he couldn't focus on the words printed there. Instead, he could only think of Molly; not only of her plight, of the confusion her body must be putting her through… but also her softness after a shower, because, _god,_ he _was_ a man, after all.

When she appeared, she was wearing his shirt, which had long been hers to sleep in. She looked worn out and sleepy as she padded the short distance across the patterned carpet to the bed, clambering over to his side with little grace but substantial ease. Automatically, he lifted his attention from the page he had been staring at and allowed her to burrow into his side, for face pressed into his neck and her damp hair chilling his skin through his shirt. Reaching out his hand to the bedside table, he retrieved painkillers from his wallet and placed them into her hand without a word, followed by a complimentary bottle of water.

"Cheers," she said softly, raising her upper body just enough to swallow the little white pills before lowering herself back down. Just as he heard her heavily exhale and thought she might already be snoozing, she spoke again. "Don' know what I'd do without you, you soft tosser."

Curse words were practically terms of endearment in the Dawes household and therefore it was unsurprising now that to hear such a thing made him smile the way it did. "Well, for one, you'd have to call for your own emergency tampons."

"Oi!" She protested weakly, raising her head just enough to give him a childish glare. "An' I would have if you wasn't so bloody keen and _obsessive husbandly_ and shit and beat me to it!"

Smug, he leaned and stole a peck from her sumptuous bottom lip that was pouting in mock indignation. " _'Obsessive husbandly'_? Dawes, you flatter me!"

She rolled her eyes at him and rolled over until her outer leg was hooked around both of his, effectively rendering her a koala as she now held onto him with multiple limbs. He was still smirking was she poked him and stubbornly moved to hide her face again. She was suddenly very quiet when he made no move to further their banter and he watched as she picked up his hand from where it lay against his abdomen and placed her palm flat against his. Something about her aura was so different these last few weeks, but in particular today, and he felt helpless to understand it, much less help reverse it. The Molly he had grown to love never sat still long enough to be this introspective, much less quite so downcast and dispirited.

"What is it?" He asked the question without thinking and immediately cursed himself for the clumsy phrasing, because of course they both _knew_ was 'it' _was._

"Oh, it's nothin' major," she said with ease, slowly ghosting the fingers on her outstretched hand to now trace the hand he still held suspended, up over each digit like Sam used to do when he traced it for hand-drawings. "I just… The blood had me strung out a minute there." The mention of blood silently shocked him a little, having forgotten momentarily the context of their earlier conversation. _It's fine,_ a voice reassured him; the same voice that kept him sane when there was the tingle of adrenaline creeping up the back of his neck. _She just means menstrual blood._ The calm that washed over him once he realised this was short lived however, as he digested what exactly she was confessing. "I jus' din' expect it, which is bloody stupid because I should 'ave – I mean, I stopped taking my pill the week it happ––."

He lay, frozen, barely daring to breathe too loudly in case it triggered her to stop talking and close off again. It was so horrifically uncomfortable, to have her talk about it at all – to have _anyone_ talk about it – because it meant he automatically kept _seeing it._

But he told himself he had to endure it, because no matter how horrific it felt for him, she had been through worse… and her silence unnerved him even more.

"I should have thought, but honestly I ain't had a period in so long I forgot, didn't I," she said softly, recovering from the momentary breathless cut in her speech. "But just now… seeing it there in me' Alans… all the _red––."_

He had to close his eyes, fighting off his own imagination as its unfortunate knowledge of blood stains of many kinds rushed to give him unwelcome mental manifestations of what Molly was describing. He didn't realise he had clenched his fists until Molly moved her fingers that were now trapped beneath his against his palm.

"––It was like I was there in that _fucking_ shitter again, trying to stop the bleeding so I could go back to my pit and hide," she said, unexpectedly open, sounding void of emotion and exhausted. Thankfully, she was without a single hint of tears. "Trying to tell myself it didn't happen and that it was _all_ one big Lionel Blaire and any minute you were gonna' to wake me up with all your bloody snoring in our bed…"

She had now laced their fingers together, gripping them with a sudden urgency, perhaps to get his attention or perhaps was trying to comfort him. Guilt swarmed around him. Did his face _really_ show so much of his feelings these days? He really was getting lax…

"I _don't_ snore," he replied automatically – an unintentional deviation. That being said, it had had the desired effect, because when he dropped his chin to his collarbone enough to get a look at her face, she was smiling. She had set the trap up for him an infinite number of times and still to this day, he couldn't resist fighting her on whether or not he bloody snored – despite the fact he had no evidence to say that he didn't.

Making a noise of contentment, he cast his book over her body and let it land anywhere before slouching his posture and shuffling until he was almost eye-to-eye with her on his pillow. Letting go of her hand, he reached up to comb back the wet tendrils of her straight hair behind her until she looked like she could have fallen from an angelic, beautifully dozy renaissance painting, all peach-skin cheeks and sleepy almond eyes the colour of Monet's Water lilies.

"Why didn't you call for me? I could have––."

" _What –_ taken my blood-stained undies off for me?" Even before she said anything, he knew he had set himself up for failure on that one, because she did have a point. She was smirking at him, lazily blinking to try and keep her eyes on him as he continued to stroke her scalp in a rhythmic pattern with the very tips of his fingers. Wrinkling her nose at him in a look of satirical admonishment that he knew all too well as she added: "Think that would be a bit far, _even for you_."

His chest gave a jerk against the curve of her side as he involuntarily let out a breathless chuckle, because bloody hell, was she right. "Right you are, Dawesy," he whispered, feeling foolish. Perhaps there _was_ nothing he could have done and there may never be.

He pressed his lips to her forehead as he moved to get up – he himself was desperately in need of a shower – and she let out a sound of contentment that, as far as he was concerned, would never get old. Her eyes were closed when he pulled back, but her fingers held on to him by his shirt at the sleeve. Looking down at the automatic grip, he considered how wanted it made him feel, how needed and relied upon, something Molly, before, made a point of trying not to show for fear of losing her individuality. It was only in moments like this, that were so rare and tangibly fragile that he dare not say a word for fear of shattering them, he remembered just how mutual their need was.

Perhaps there was never going to be anything he could do, he thought as he leaned in again, _except perhaps this._

"Love you," she sighed out drowsily as she turned into the pillow and curled up her limbs like a child, which made him grin to himself like a lovesick idiot.

"Ditto, gorgeous girl," he whispered, tearing himself away but not before draping the cover blanket over her. He hurried to rid himself of his clothes, intent of making his shower a military one of no more than one minute so he could get back to her as soon as he could, because it suddenly occurred to him _just_ how shattered he was.

"Charlie?" She slurred lazily just as he almost made it to the bathroom, a ghost of a smile on her otherwise peaceful, sleeping features. "You're right… You don't snore."

He was still sniggering to himself about her sleepy comment precisely four minutes later, by which time he had successfully completed his sixty second shower routine with his usual military precision and brushed his teeth. Wearily, he trudged across the room, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dim as he crawled up onto the bed. He gazed Molly's still form for a moment, enjoying the candid view of her dreaming, the slightest hint of a smile on her face. He felt guilty that he was going to have to disturb her, but he knew she'd wake up cold if he left her to sleep on top of the sheets. "Molly, Sweetheart," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her head, pressing a trail of them across her face. She let out a disgruntled groan and barely managed to open one eye, but she conceded and rolled so he could pull back the sheets from under her. "Sorry, but you'll be cold if you stay on top," he whispered, leaning over her body to turn off the bedside lamp. She made a noise from the back of her throat as he cuddled her into his chest. "Ah, finally!" He sighed gratefully, burrowing his nose into her damp hair, inhaling the familiar scent of her apple anti-dandruff shampoo. "You're so beautiful," he whispered needlessly, feeling the strange pressure in his chest again.

Molly made a happy noise, evidently only partially hearing him, but he couldn't even bring himself to care that he was most likely talking to himself. He brushed his lips over her hairline as his thoughts strayed to the last events of the twenty-four hours. It was no wonder she was so tired, he thought, having had two rather fraught emotional episodes in such a short space of time. Secretly, it terrified him to see such an extreme physical response from her that had resulted in her being physically sick with fear. Her personality was usually so laid back and laissez faire that it sometimes drove him mad, but now it felt like everything had taken a three-sixty. If he had been told a few months ago that she would become someone who could never sit with her back to strangers and burst into tears in stifling fear of a man who wasn't even there, he would never have believed it. Momentarily, his memory strayed to the previous evening, to how she had cried, simultaneously so frightened and yet desperate for their previous level of physical intimacy that she had gotten herself high on an aphrodisiac just to force her body to comply.

But if there was one thing a soldier knew, it was that there was no burying that kind of fear; it will only rot you from the inside out.

The warm memories that followed though, of his decision to be the most over indulgent lover possible to truly give her a break from reality and the sounds she subsequently made, they were painful to think about for an entirely different reason. It had been so long since he himself had been able to give into physical intimacy with her, he couldn't allow himself to linger on it.

He must have been fraught with second hand anxiety as well as his own worries, as his mind wouldn't stop reeling. Not only was he continuously trying to work out what Abu could be planning, but he was worried, especially being in London, that an attack on British soil by the terror group was imminent, considering his captor was now hiding somewhere in the country. He wouldn't tell anyone anything that had been discussed at Whitehall that day, much less his wife, whom herself was struggling not to call apart and jump at the shadows of shadows. While this silence was his duty and he had no trouble keeping to it... it was very difficult for him not to open up to Molly. He had been emotionally open with her to the best of his ability since his first omission of the truth in Afghan had almost ended the two of them before they had even began. He had looked at her in that compound as she had refused to look at him and he had felt an urgency to spew out his guts and fuck the consequences. The thunder could have so easily been an IED, he had realised, and then what? Their love would have been sent to their graves, undeclared and useless. What would have been the point in keeping to regulations then? They mean nothing when you're dead.

So, for the first time, Charles James had given in to a moment of weakness... and boy, was it glorious. Perhaps some rules really were written to be broken... Just sometimes. He remembered holding her face in his hands, cradling her in a way he had craved to do since the first time and knowing that, despite every single thing the Army has beaten into him, he would happily do it all again a million times over if it meant she would keep looking at him like that.

These days, he tried his best not to take such looks of tenderness for granted, because she deserved better than that – and if there was one thing he had learned from his failed marriage, it was that complacency was the ultimate demon to any relationship.

The prospect of having to take Molly to see his solicitor filled him with dread because he knew how much she would hate it, but he knew that he couldn't let her put it off any longer. With only a fortnight until serious incident court marshal, he felt his own pulse race as the prospect of being faced with the man that did the most unspeakable thing a man could possibly do to a woman. He knew he wasn't ready to it, so he could only imagine how Molly must be feeling.

Sleep continued to evade him for what felt like a very long time, despite how tired he was. He gazed down at Molly instead, admiring her freckles and the creaming nature of her skin where it remained untouched by the effects of the sun. She gradually began shuffling in her sleep, frowning, and he could guess what may be coming, so when she did begin mewing in her sleep, a sound like the mournful whimper of very young child, he was ready and waiting to whisper hushing sounds and words of reassurance against her hair. "I'm here," he whispered. "You're okay. You're safe." She sounded so helpless that it made his chest ache with worry for her. Thankfully, the dream went no further in upsetting her and she didn't wake once, settling into his side once she was quiet again. Still though he spoke to her, hoping that, even if just subliminally, she might hear him reminding her of her worth and start to believe him again.


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: Hey y'all,_

 _So, I thought we could all use a little pick me up after THAT episode that rocked our confidence as to Molly & CJ's fate... so I got this part of the chapter to a state good enough for posting. _

_As far as I'm concerned, these two_ _here to stay. Anything else is just not and will never be realistic enough to be Canon for me... But y'all already knew that, right?_

 _LOVE & HUGS, _

_Stars Walk Backward_

* * *

 _"When she fell, she fell apart._

 _Cracked her bones on the pavement she once decorated  
as a child with sidewalk chalk._

 _When she crashed, her clothes disintegrated and blew away,  
with the winds that took all of her fair-weather friends._

 _When she looked around, her skin was spattered with ink_  
 _forming the words of a thousand voices_  
 _Echoes she heard even in her sleep:_  
 _"Whatever you say, it is not right."  
"Whatever you do, it is not enough."  
"Your kindness is fake."  
"Your pain is manipulative."_

 _When she lay there on the ground,_  
 _She dreamed of time machines and revenge_  
 _and a love that was really something,_

 _Not just the idea of something._

 _When she finally rose, she rose slowly_  
 _Avoiding old haunts and sidestepping shiny pennies_  
 _Wary of phone calls and promises,_  
 _Charmers, dandies and get-love-quick-schemes."_

 **–– _"Why She Disappeared", Part I_ \- Taylor Swift**

* * *

 **XXII**

* * *

Molly woke up earlier than Charles the next morning, which was unusual. The grey of dawn was only just visible through the heavy curtains and it made her feel even more weary to see the lack of daylight. Momentarily gazing over at Charles, she reached forward to smooth down the mussed up curls on his hairline. It was frizzy and soft to touch and it made her smile, reminding her of Sam and his notorious bed hair. Holding her breath, she managed to uncurl herself from his body without waking him and silently padded over to pick up her phone. It was only 8:30am, but the dreary winter morning made that hard to believe. Rubbing her eyes, she struggled to read the notifications on her phone screen as she was still half asleep. A message had come through from Brains in their old Two Section group chat, rather typically named 'Original Under Fives #5ever', telling her to pass on the message to Charles to 'please hurry up getting better' because regimental duties were 'dull as fuckery without his bollockings'. She stifled a giggle, hearing the words in Brains' soft Scouse accent automatically after being friends with him so long. Mansfield then added beneath that he also wanted her to communicate that their casualty replacement Captain was ten times more 'mardy' (whatever that meant) and not nearly as 'woke'. Molly looked forward to trying to explain that one to Charles.

She missed the lads a great deal, but since they were busy with the regiment until their various Christmas days off, there was little she could do but message them and pretend she wasn't hiding away in her gaff, afraid to go outside alone. She stared at Brains' icon, pursing her lips in indecision. She was desperate to reach out to her closest friends, but she felt the undeniable claws of shame rise up from beneath her foot and wrench at her gut every time she opened her mouth to even consider telling them the truth. After all, they were squaddies; squaddies whom took the piss for a living. What if they didn't believe her, or worse still, thought she must have asked for it? She wasn't sure she could ever take that kind of rejection.

Instead, she settled on simply sending him a message separately before she could pose her nerve.

' _Alright mate? I've been missing all you buggers... I think I'm going a bit mad over here…'_

It took her all of twenty seconds before she decided that she would add no more to it, sending the obscenely nondescript message with a dejected sigh. It didn't once cross her mind until after the text had long gone that they were probably wondering why she didn't seem to be working at the barracks herself. As she stared blindly at the remaining unread notifications on her phone screen, her mind racing with what on earth she was going to say when the questions inevitably came, she noticed a new voicemail – from none other than Doctor Kahn. Immediately, she felt dread build in the pit of her stomach, remembering all the events of the previous day. She had called Doctor Kahn in a desolate moment on the terrace outside her parents' gaff, filled with a nauseating sense of helplessness after she had told her Mum and Nan the truth. Truthfully, she had been left wondering how on earth she would ever be able to go anywhere and not feel sick with panic ever again.

 _"Hi Dawes. I'm sorry that I missed your call yesterday – I was booked up all day. I hope you're feeling better today after what you described about yesterday. I'm not sure if you will have checked your emails yet, but I have had Linda send you the information for the counselling group that I really think you would benefit from. There's no pressure though, of course. Call the clinic when you can and make another appointment if you still feel you need one. If not, call this desk phone if you need me and I will be available for emergency sessions."_

Leaning against the bathroom door, Molly took a breath and forced herself to press the 'Call Back' button before she lost her nerve. She was put through to Doctor Kahn's secretary, assumably called Linda, who put her through with minimal waiting in an irritatingly chirpy voice for the dark winter morning.

"Dawes – good morning," Doctor Kahn's soft voice greeted her. "How are you feeling today?"

" _Meh_ , well, you know how it is, ma'am," she replied, nonplussed, quickly brushing past the topic. "Look, I'm sorry I called you and blubbered yesterday. I think I might have honestly got a screw loose, but I'm honestly fine—."

" _Are_ you, though?" Doctor Kahn challenged easily. "From what you left on my answering machine, you aren't quite fine." She didn't speak with a tone of judgement, or even scolding, but as though this was a mere fact. "You've discovered a new trigger?"

Rubbing her face, Molly gulped and caught the sight of herself in the mirror. "Yeah, guess so," she conceded clumsily. "I found out about the court marshal date and suddenly, I just... All the smell of... unfamiliar sweat at the gym was _His––._ "

"––I understand," she said and Molly found herself pleased to be interrupted. "That must have been very distressing for you. Well, perhaps we best have you come back in for another session." There was the sound of some shuffling of papers. "Would Thursday the 10th do?"

Suddenly, the date dawned on her, reminding her of an event she had managed to forget. Bollocks. Georgie's engagement night out!

"Can I get back to you on that one, ma'am?" Cringing, she reeled with the realisation of the important date she had forgotten. Georgie had gotten engaged just before this recent tour and hadn't had chance to celebrate, so Jamie had suggested they do so afterward and Georgie had quickly set a date for just her and the girls, which chiefly meant old friends from tours, like Molly, and her friends from the barracks. Molly had easily and enthusiastically agreed when Georgie had asked her if she would come out for drinks with her and her bridal party, having thought how much her future self would be desperate for a night on the town after the tour in Afghan was over. _Fuckin' hell,_ she thought _. How little did I bloody know..._

"I, um, just remembered I might have prior commitments that day, but I hopefully I should be free," she explained hurriedly, trying her best to use her best voice and remember protocol through her sleepy haze.

"That's absolutely alright," Doctor Kahn accepted, her familiar gentle Punjab accent calming the nerves that had arise in Molly at the mere thought of having to discuss her latest... _episode_. "But I must insist that if you cannot have an emergency appointment with me that you consider attending the support group. You should not bury this, so, whether it's with me, or with other women like you, opening up is what matters." Doctor Kahn's hierarchical status rarely showed in their first session, perhaps as her way of building a rapport with her patients, since she was a Doctor first after all... Either way though, Molly heard it now.

Gritting her teeth, Molly fought her natural instinct to dismiss the idea as a needless waste of time. "I'll think on it and let you know, if that's alright," she said.

Thankfully, Doctor Kahn seemed satisfied with her answer before she hung up, leaving Molly standing in the bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror and wondering what the fuck she was going to do, because she didn't want to do _either_ of those therapy options – never mind go out drinking with Georgie as well! She felt emotionally exhausted just thinking about it. She tossed her phone in the empty sink without a second glance as though it might spontaneously combust... or perhaps it was just that looking at it reminded her of the outside world. Currently, it was a world she was very much hiding from.

Quietly leaving the bathroom, she eyed the painkillers on the bedside table where they were peeping out of Charles' wallet. Her lower abdomen felt tight with nerves from her conversation, but deeper still, she could feel the undeniable and all too familiar pressure behind her hipbones that made her restless and attempted to aggressively push her fingers into her flesh to try and ease the ache. Her period had always given her such grief, which had been a key reason to her going on the pill in secret when she was fifteen – though not the only reason of course. At the time, she had been too embarrassed for Belinda to know her business, so she had managed to convince her friend to give her a spare box of pills that she had gotten from the Doctor by pretending she had lost her previous prescription.

Now, her the monthly cycle seemed to be returning with a vengeance, as though paying her back for so many years of banishment through various methods of birth control. Grabbing the painkillers, she took two without allowing herself to consider the fact she should have eaten breakfast first. The pain would only continue to get worse if she didn't take something the moment the first twinges began and it was the last thing she had the patience for. The use of tampons had been uncomfortable enough with her… _new_ body, for lack of a better term; a body that was now permanently tensed and ready for a invasion by a foreign object.

She pushed the thought away and instead focused on Charles, his face perfectly youthful and smooth in his sleep. He wasn't wearing a shirt, though the last she could remember from the night before, he had been wearing a lovely dress shirt. Smirking, she took in the sight of the dark olive tone on his arms and where it suddenly fell in stark contrast with the paler skin of his shoulders in a rather horrific, though impressive, t-shirt tan. His arms were curled over his own body toward her side, as though reaching out for something while he slept. She dare not allow herself to believe he would be reaching for her even in his sleep. She did not deserve such devotion.

She allowed her gaze to fall lower, taking in where the dark brown hair trailed down his firm stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of his briefs. The sheets pooled at his hips so she couldn't see the shape of him, but her mouth filled with saliva all the same at the memory of what lay beneath. She wished she could wake him the way he would never expect, in the way that would render him speechless and relentlessly grateful like she once would have, but anxiety stormed around her and prevented her from even attempting to visualise doing so, setting her pulse racing.

Instead, she pushed all thoughts of his body into the back of her mind, convincing herself that she didn't want him that way all that much and crawled back into bed with a heavy sigh. Shyly, not wanting to wake him, she edged herself back into his embrace, simply placing an arm over his on his chest and pressing her face into his neck. He made a noise, rousing a little until suddenly his arms were lazily around her, pulling her in until his body so close to hers in every way that his lips came to rest against her forehead, sharing his pillow.

"Y'okay?" His voice almost made her jump because his expression hadn't changed; he still looked fast asleep. His voice was slurred, not the articulate and precise tone that was familiar when he was awake, so she knew that if she was still and calm, he would soon drift off again. Reaching up, she stroked his curls like she often did – the same way she had the very first time they had ever been alone in the hospital in Birmingham; a lifetime ago. "Just period pain," she whispered gently, keeping her voice low and level. "Go back to sleep." She could see the pale bags under his eyes even in this light and it did nothing to appease her anxiety.

He made a sound of sympathy, as though the very presence of her pain was offensive to him. On autopilot, his hand moved limply to her hip where his fingers pushed into the small of her back and his thumb into the delve of her abdomen, applying pressure directly where the ache radiated from at her hipbone. His strong digits massaged in leisurely circles, pressing so hard that it would have hurt if it didn't also distract and relieve the pressure beneath her skin so wonderfully. She exhaled a groan of relief and appreciation and closed her eyes, smoothing her hands over his back in calming, nonsense patterns.

It used to frighten her, how he could read her like a book and would only need to do so just _once_ to remember such tiny details about her for good, but it was in moments like this that she felt truly as though he saw more than she realised. He recalled her body's tendency for period pain and was astute enough to read her body language and how he could help. Her eyes burned with a sudden wave of emotion at the thought that he silently paid such attention to her. She pushed her face into him harder, flush against his throat, hiding her cheeks hot and watery eyes. Her fingers curled, grabbing at the skin of his back, needing to anchor herself to him. (Her nails were always pathetically short since she ditched the long acrylics once her nail bar days were over, so she knew she wouldn't hurt him as she held onto him so tightly). Through the thin cotton of his old t-shirt, she could feel the heat of his skin, keeping her much more insulated than the rather pathetic hotel sheets ever could, which were mostly now tangled around her legs.

She felt so safe in his arms, a fact she came close to resenting in the early days of their relationship because it meant that the rest of the world felt so very empty when she had to leave, in a way it never had before.

"Alright," he mumbled sleepily above her, startling her as she assumed he had fallen back to sleep. She should have known it was naive to assume he wouldn't feel her anxiety, considering she had just been mulling over his incredible – ( _superhuman_ ) – attention to detail. " _Spill_ it, you. What is it?" His gravelling just-awoken voice always sent a minuscule flush across her skin, no matter whether she was semi-conscious and exhausted or in a hump with him. She was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with the quiet vulnerability in that voice. Still though, it didn't particularly help her find her words to reply with any more ease.

"Just thinking," she said softly, before realising what she had said. "—And don't you _dare_ say 'oh no,' or I _swear––!"_

His chest vibrated against her as he sniggered. " _How_ you know me," he hummed; she knew by the tone that he was smiling.

"Maybe you just need some new lines, mate," she quipped dryly. He tightened his hold and she felt his fingers stroking down her hair, a long-term habit that always sent her to sleep.

"Don't change the subject," he whispered affectionately, before his voice dropped low and became more pleading. "Talk to me…"

"I _just_ … I can't stop thinkin'…" she struggled. "I don't think I can tell the lads." She couldn't stop seeing Fingers' shocked, silent face. "How _can_ I?"

"Hey – one step at a time," Charles replied pragmatically. "You don't _ever_ have to tell them if you don't want to."

"But they'll _know,"_ she said, hating how her voice cracked. "They'll _see…_ that I ain't… I ain't _me!"_

"And if they do, then… that's how you know they're your friends," he replied, making it all sound so simple. She pressed her eyes closed, trying to focus on calming herself, which was easier to do when Charles decided to play with the ends of her hair. They lay in quiet for a while and Molly focused on the steady thud of his heart under her ear until her pulse slowed to match his. It left her shaken when she thought too much think of him as mere skin and bone, as fragile and mortal as every other human being, because the Charles she knew on a daily basis went off to war. He _couldn't_ be just another human being, he couldn't be so easily broken…because that meant he could _die_ … She gulped and didn't realise that her hands had clenched a little too hard into his skin until he hissed through his teeth.

" _Jesus_ , Sweetheart. _Relax,_ " he huffed, though he tightened his own hold in return. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Sorry," she muttered immediately, loosening her grip marginally, before smirking at his statement, shaking off her morbid thoughts. "What – even if I get all pregnant an' fat?" She felt him smile against her forehead rather than seeing it, but she could visualise the exact shape of the expression perfectly.

" _Especially_ then," he clarified with a depth of feeling in his voice that sounded suspiciously like a vow. It made her stomach flutter, because they hadn't discussed this properly yet and deep down, she was most worried that a post-military body and post-baby exhaustion would send him packing.

"Liar," she muttered self consciously, watching in the dim as he moved over until he could hold her hand and peep down at her.

"Nope – always honest, Dawes," he replied flippantly, burrowing his face into her hair.

Images of the little boy that her mind invented a few nights ago, all soft with a mop of cork-screw curls, were back with a vengeance as she dared to ask: "You think about things like that?"

He moved further so he could see her, the weight of his gaze making her squirm. "Of course I do," he replied with ease. "Why wouldn't I?" She giggled as he kissed her obnoxiously loudly, making squeaky noises to make her laugh. "Do you?"

"I didn't… until, _well_ , until I did," she admitted. He looked surprised, his eyebrow raising as his eyes glinted at her through the dim. "I had a… _dream_ the other night…and then, obviously we bumped into Katie with her li'le'un and…" He was watching so intently that she went quiet. She was pretty sure her cheeks were now the colour of a tomato.

"Are you trying to tell me you aren't terrified of the very _word_ 'baby' anymore?"

She pretended to give his question a lot of thought. " _Maybe_?"

"Ah- _ha_!" He exclaimed quietly, pulling her tight against his chest as she began tickling her sides. She was left gasping for breath and trying not to screech, wriggling to get away from him.

"Stop, you tosser – _stop!"_ She gasped, grabbing at his restless hands in desperation. She _hated_ being tickled and the smug bastard loved to do it; it was perhaps the biggest sign that he was a father. She and Sam often made a game of running away from him and his twitching fingers. Despite hating it, she always found herself laughing breathlessly, now partially pressed into the mattress by his weight as he finally tired. Leaning over her, his heavy exhales tickled her face as his laughter died. She mirrored the grin on his face and watched through the grey of the room as his eyes gazed over her intently long after he had fallen quiet. It made her heart stutter to see him looking at her with an adorable look of surprise. "What?" She sniggered at him, defaulting into humour as a mechanism to hide that the situation might be uncomfortable. When he didn't speak, her humour dissipated and instead she reached up and smoothed down his curls. "You really thought that I din' want babies with you?" He suddenly couldn't stop looking anywhere other than her, clearing his throat in the way he always did when he was uncomfortable. "Shit – you… _did?"_ She wanted to laugh, but kept it back – just about – for the sake of his ego.

"Well, you were never exactly subtle," he said defensively, rolling off her and staring at the ceiling. "I believe the words the day I proposed to you were, ' _as long as you don't expect me to get sprogged up'_."

"I was takin' the piss! I thought you knew." Leaning up on her elbow, she looked over his handsome shadowy profile. Momentarily, she did not move, struck dumb with what to say because, suddenly, it _did_ feel ridiculous that he would truly believe such a thing. It served her right for deliberately burying the topic, she supposed. Rolling over, she invaded his personal space, refusing to allow him to sulk as she stared down at him, taking a handful of his curls to keep him still.

"Do you really?" His question is so hesitant and quiet, making him sound as insecure as she often felt, that it stirred her gut in a sudden wave of empathy. She couldn't help but grin at him. His arms tightened around her, as she dipped her chin and kissed him repeatedly; eyes open and intimate.

"At the risk of soundin' like that there song from like 2002… I do wanna' have your babies… Just, _someday,_ that's all, not now."

She watched him struggling not to split into a grin immediately. Instead, he wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes, an expression that she knew meant he was conceding defeat and that the risk of a full-blown Bossman sulk had passed. A satisfied groan escaped him as he flashed his perfectly straight teeth, reaching upward to meet her lips in a kiss with sudden enthusiasm. "You should warn a man before you say such a thing, Dawes," he sighed, holding the back of her skull to keep her close. "I feel like a bloody caveman hearing you say it." Rolling sideways, she let her leg fall between his. Meanwhile, he was busy tracing her face with his knuckles and giving her a look that burned with clear, but guarded, desire. He dropped his face until it was so close to hers that she almost went cross-eyed trying to keep eye contact. He was gazing at her as though trying to peer right inside her soul and right back out again.

Her heart throbbed at the idea that he was effected so by her admission as she smirked at him to hide it, feigning totally innocence. "Say _what_ , Boss?"

He was shaking his head at her but biting his lip, which she knew meant his thoughts were taking a step towards, what he often referred to as, 'the unsavoury'. "Say it again," he murmured lowly, nudging closer and closer until his nose grazed hers. She shivered, despite the heat of his skin that kept her warm.

"I want to have your babies…" she husked in her best sexy voice, watching the look in his eyes. "… _Boss,"_ she added, unable to resist an opportunity. Immediately, he rolled his eyes and gave her his best disapproving glare for ruining the moment with forces formalities. She threw back her head and cackled unapologetically, only for Charles to silence her with a sure, firm kiss, followed by another and another. She could feel him grinning smugly to himself against her face even before she opened her eyes, but when she did, she was surprised to see his expression was one of very quiet, hesitant relief.

"Again," he whispered, pulling her into his arms until she was surrounded by him. She heard the change in his voice before she felt it in his posture. Suddenly, his voice was cracking and breathy, which she knew could only mean he was focussing on keeping himself in check. She held his face and trained her eyes on his, which were now visibly glassy even in the dim of the room. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard under her solid gaze, his hands holding onto her tighter as though she might anchor him to his usual decorum.

"I want your babies, Charlie."

This time, there was no hint of humour in her voice. The words suddenly felt heavy with the symbolism of something that Molly could not even articulate, but she could feel it like she could feel the goosebumps raising on her arms. The smile she received in return was a watery one, his brow smooth and his lashes fluttering, and it instantly made her stomach clench with an overwhelming, all-consuming adoration. Suddenly, it was _all_ she could do not to force herself to give him what he wanted in that moment and force her body to do it despite her fear; anything to keep that look on his face. He didn't kiss her straight away, instead pulling her face to his, staring at her with his eyes so close that it would have unnerved her if she hadn't been tantalised, holding her breath. He whispered something that sounded like nonsense against her skin and she frowned, confused.

"What did ya' say?"

He shook his head against his pillow, still looking over her like she was utterly fascinating. Reaching up, he nudged her lower lip and grazed it with the pad of his thumb. Her pulse trembled. " _Ut incepit fidelis sic permanet,"_ he whispered, enunciating for her to hear. The foreign language sounded exotic to her ear, unplaceable. It certainly didn't sound anything like Pashto, Swahili, Arabic or Italian – the few languages she had come in contact with over various tours and one honeymoon.

"What gobbledygook is tha' when it's at home?" She asked in a whisper, not wanting to break the tangible, sizzling moment between the two of them.

He chuckled, still tracing her features. "It's Latin," he replied.

"Wha' – tha' old language in museums and tha'?"

Again, he laughed and she didn't mind. She was never going to be Brain of Britain, but she knew now that she could _learn_ and he was more than happy to teach her.

"Most of the time, yes."

"What does it mean?" She asked, unable to help herself. Her fingers were fiddling with one particular springy curl at his hairline.

Her skin prickled deliciously under his heavy gaze as he whispered the translation against her face: " _As loyal as she began, so she remains."_

It left her wondering just how much she had yet to learn from her husband.

"I've always been loyal, me," she replied, not sure what else to say. Somehow, she knew that the words had more gravity than she was able to understand. She gulped down a sudden urge to well up, uncertain where on earth it had come from.

"Yes," he said. "You've always been a hundred per cent by my side, haven't you?"

"An' I still will be, Bossman... just with a lot less fatigues and a lot of maternity shit." Again, she made him laugh and she wished she could take a mental picture of the way his nose wrinkled to remember it precisely for eternity.

"What a mental image," he drawled, "Lance Corporal Dawesy running into combat with a breast pump as a tourniquet."

She buried her face into the pillow as she began to laugh so violently that she snorted. "Steady on," she wheezed, moving to lean against the headboard. "I ain't sure I'm ready _that_ soon."

"I know," he murmured, seemingly not bothered by the existence of hesitation now that she had confessed that, one day, it would happen. "I can't express how much it means to me that you would consider it even." He was giving her a look that gave her the willies in a good way, blood rising up her neck in a flush more suited to a crushing schoolgirl, so she laughed nervously into the quiet to try to cover it. "I love you," he said, punctuating the words with delicate kisses against her shoulder.

Ignore the way her stomach flipped, she returned the gesture with a kiss to his forehead. While it was usually his chosen sign of affection, she liked to do it in return sometimes, because she knew just how treasure it made her feel; a sensation he deserved ten times over. "I know," she replied against his skin. "Good job I love you too, innit?"

They never managed to fall back to sleep, since lie-ins were near impossible after years of ingrained military timetables. After they both wolfed down breakfast, Charles reminded her he had to pick up Sam on the way home and she was surprised to find she was no longer filled with dread at the idea of being left alone and responsible for him as she had been before. She had been so frightened of losing it in front of him and upsetting him... but she missed the poor kid and he missed his dad, so she knew she had to get on with it.

Charles was whistling happily to himself as he drove, a stark contrast from the day before, as Molly read him the paper aloud and attempted to help him with The Times crossword – habits that had long become their traditions on long drives. She leapt out of the car at the services to get Charles yet another coffee, despite the fact he had one, through a grimace or two, with the hotel breakfast. He gave her _such_ an enthusiastic kiss as she handed him his caffeine fix someone might have thought the man had been starved of the stuff for weeks. "Did I mention I love you?" he had asked as he backed away enough to take a long pull of the coffee and start the engine.

As they arrived into Harrow to pick Sam up from boarding school, Molly had to try and keep her mouth closed and her chin from dragging on the floor. She had never actually been with Charles to collect him before – usually Rebecca would collect him on exeat weekends and the end of term and drop him with Charles when he wasn't away. The entire area looked like something from Harry Potter, pretty and historic in the winter frost. It certainly looked nothing like anything Molly had ever associated with _school_.

"You went here too, din'cha?" She asked as he slowed toward a parking space in front of a very old, beautiful building, the likes of which Molly had never seen. She watched the young boys excitedly piling into cars, meanwhile the older lads were ambling along the pavement in their prim and proper uniforms, not an untucked shirt or inch-long tie in sight. She could all but imagine a young Charles ambling along with them, up to top-secret mischief.

"Yes," he said, looking somewhat wistfully out the window. "It does feel odd coming back here... It feels like a whole other life."

"Well... Most people ain't like they were at school, Charles," she giggled. "I mean, if we was, then you most definitely wouldn't be married to me – with my bloody beehive!"

He grinned, smug. "It was a pretty shocking hairdo," he mumbled, pretending to say it under his breath, earning him a sharp swipe to his shoulder. He pouted his lips an apologetic kiss making an obnoxiously squeaky noise that she ignored as she climbed out into the cold.

Watching the poor sods in their straw boater hats as they climbed out of the car, Molly snorted indelicately as she could not keep from visualising Charles wearing one. Leaning into him, she whispered: "Did you have to wear one of them things?"

Pulling on his coat and scarf against the chill, he gave her a deadpan look. "Indeed I did, Dawesy, though I hated the thing. We used to use them as frisbees once we were out of the grounds." The mischievous twinkle in her eye must have been telling, because she didn't let her speak before he added: "But you will never see any evidence of any of it."

Pouting, she grabbed at his arm and made a noise of displeasure. _"Miserable sod."_

He rolled his eyes and stood firm, no matter how much she poked at him. "Nope, nope. Not happening, sorry."

"Well, I'm sure your mum will show me!" She retorted sulkily as they made their way inside hurriedly to find Sam.

"No, I took all the evidence I'm afraid after they made their way into Elvis' hands at my first wedding."

"What?! So Rebecca got to ogle at the sight of you in one of them boaters and I don't?!"

He suddenly smirked at her, evidently feeling mischievous. " _Ogle_?"

Rolling her eyes, she marched ahead of him sulkily as they entered the great Georgian boarding house – that is, until she realised she had no idea where she was going. He promptly took her hand and smirked at her as she conceded.

"Charles!" An elderly man with in an impressive suit hurried past the mingling parents to greet him, hand outstretched for a warm handshake and a clasp on his shoulder. His voice was ten times more posh to Molly's ears than all of Charles' family put together.

"Osburton!" Charles greeted the man with a keen grip that had Molly knowing that he must have once been very close to him. "How are you, Sir?"

"My, it's been so long! I am quite well my boy, but how are _you?_ I saw the news and even when they weren't allowed to announce your names, I said to Philip that I thought it was you."

Molly watched as Charles shifted on his feet, clearing his throat in the way he always did when he was uncomfortable. The smile he gave was one that didn't quite reach his eyes, polite and docile. "Yes, it was, but, mercifully, I'm here now. I hope my son has been being well behaved for you?"

"I did worry he might be disturbed by your ordeal but it seems that it almost entirely passed him by thanks to our internet restrictions... and how busy he is with his rugby."

Molly swallowed, suddenly shifting uncomfortably and finding the floor fascinating, because she knew somehow that this was very unlikely to be true. After he confessed to her that the older boys had told him the truth about how his dad had hurt his leg the previous tour, she knew that he was a lot more perceptive than Charles often gave him credit for.

"Samuel is such a well behaved young man. Not to worry, he had taken after you there."

Molly smirked, unable to help herself – that and she knew that he would be keen for a change of subject. "I always knew you was a right little teacher's pet, Charles!"

Beside her, he rose his eyebrows, seemingly unapologetic. "Molly, this is Master Osburton, my old house master here," he explained softly, before turning to his old teacher and motioning to Molly with his hand. "Sir, this is my wife, Molly."

"Ah, Yes! Samuel has quite a story or two about you," the older man supplied, knowingly. "You met Charles in Afghanistan, I remember."

"Uh oh, Dawes," Charles hummed gently under his breath. "What on earth did you do?"

Molly rose her eyebrows and shrugged, nervous as to what on earth Sam could be referring to. "I ain't the foggiest, mate – _honest_."

"Samuel is up in his bedroom," the man said, already moving away to speak to another parent. "Good to see you both!"

Charles smiled wistfully across at her. "This was my boarding house too," he said softly, as they climbed the grand, curved staircase.

Molly eyes' were wide and round as she looked at the ornate historic oil paintings on the walls and the high, gilded ceilings. "Shit... You really _are_ a posh git, ain't ya'?" He watched her as she climbed the stairs beside him, shaking her head at him. "Probably a good thing I din' know quite how much before I married ya'. I'd have shit me'self."

He rolled his eyes at her jesting, pulling her hand to his mouth to kiss her wedding ring. "Too late now, Dawes," he murmured, pulling her promptly towards Sam's room, where he was packing almost as methodically as his father.

"Hiya mate!" Molly greeted enthusiastically, watching as Sam shyly greeted them because his friend was also in the room.

"Hey Scamp!" Charles grinned, pulling his somewhat reluctant son into his hold, pressing urgent kisses to his head. Sam rolled his eyes over his father's shoulder, knowing Molly could see him. She suppressed a snigger and moved to hug him herself, ruffling his smooth brown hair.

"Y'excited to finish school?!" Molly asked as Charles checked his bag for all the right belongings.

"It's just for Christmas," Sam replied pedantically, shrugging as thought it was nothing. "Are your ribs better, Dad?"

Charles faltered in his militarised movements, taken by surprise by his son's quick questions and his immediate concern.

"'is face is back to normal, that's for sure," Molly replied for him, knowing Sam loved it when she teased him.

"It did look weird when it was all blue and red," he agreed easily, giggling when Charles gave him a look of false offence.

"Well, it looks like I'm outnumbered again!" He pulled Sam's hold-all, which Molly noted was embroidered with the fancy crest that was also on his blazer, over his shoulder. "But my ribs are almost better now, thank you for asking, Sam."

"Molly said she'd make them better with her medic skills," Sam replied pragmatically, sounding completely unsurprised. Molly cackled, not realising Sam would remember she said such a thing, and Charles glanced over his shoulder and smirked at her with his tongue in his cheek.

"Well, she _has_ been helping, a bit, I suppose," he agreed politely, though Molly could tell by his tone he wanted to say something else entirely. Wriggling his eyebrows at her, he pulled Sam's coat off the coat hook and guarded him towards the door.

Molly followed behind them as the descended the staircase, smiling to herself at the sight of the two of them chatting about school, Charles' arm over Sam's shoulders. While Sam didn't bare as much physical resemblance to Charles as he did to Rebecca with his straight, lighter brown hair, their personalities were incredibly similar. They both repressed their feelings a little too much, she observed, so she had taken it upon herself to make sure neither of them became silent and brooding – whether they liked it or not.

As they made their way home, she kept both of them talking, even letting Charles' put on his Elton John Greatest Hits CD and sing at the top of his lungs; anything to keep them all laughing and herself from checking her phone and having to face reality.

When she finally did give in to checking it again, her stomach in knots, she found she had a number of missed calls from unknown numbers and voicemails that, when she realised what they were, made her lose her ability to breathe. Immediately, she peeled back from the living room where Charles and Sam were aggressively playing Mario Kart and all but fell up the stairs on her hands and knees, trying to process what she was looking at. She stared blindly at the wall as the voices of multiple preppy, smarmy journalists asking her to call them back filled her with a sickening concoction of confusion and dread, soon morphing into shame and fury.

 _Hi, this is Erica Goldbloom, calling for a Lance Corporal Dawes. We have picked up a story about sexual assault in the forces and a source tells us that you recently reported your Commanding Officer on such a charge. We're looking to get your side of the story, so please do give me a call back on this number._

The words circled her and rang in her ears, each loop feeling like another noose around her throat.

Now _everyone would know._

Then, the doorbell rang and she leapt out of her skin at the top of the stairs. As her phone was still pressed to her ear, yet another journalist's bullshit in her ear, all she could focus on was the volume of her breathing, which seemed unnaturally loud and overwhelming. Gulping down a fresh breath, she glanced down at the door and felt her stomach drop at the urgent second drill of the doorbell.

"Coming!" Charles called as he made his way toward the door, gaming controller in hand. The moment he seized the handle, urgent words fell from her mouth, breathless and rushed and not nearly as loud as she intended.

 _"Don't answer!"_

But it was too late. He looked at her briefly with a bemused expression over his shoulder, already turning politely to the stranger who stood there, notepad in hand.

"Hi," they greeted immediately. The man's red hair was spiked like a hedgehog and was all Molly could make out from her hiding place at the top bannister. "Is this the residence of Lance Corporal Dawes-James?"

She couldn't breathe as she waited for Charles reply, eyes clenched shut against the wood, telepathically urging him to slam the door in the man's face.

"I'm sorry," Charles scoffed arrogantly in the way he did when he was taken off guard. " _Who_ are you?"

Silently, she stared up at the ceiling and thanked the heavens she didn't believe in that she was married to such a bloody _cautious_ bastard.

"My name is Jeremy Price – I work for the local Aldershot newspaper––."

"––Well, I assure you, _Mr. Price_ , there is no one here of interest to you here. Good day."

She could hear his defensiveness in his tone, there way his words were clipped as he spoke politely through his teeth. Molly cringed as she heard the man protest, but thankfully the door slammed before anything else could be asked. For a long moment, she held her breath, still curled against the bannister on the top step, trying to make her body remember how to breathe. She could hear him slightly making his way up each step, stealthy and light footed as he always was, with his hands out toward her as though she might startle and run. Just as quietly, he folded his long body onto the step beside her and she was chronically aware of the weight of his gaze on her as her nails dug into the wood.

"Sweetheart––."

"Well, that's it then." She pressed her forehead against the wood so hard that she could feel it beginning to make an impression on her skin. "It's hard enough telling my mum and now the hold bleedin' _world's_ gonna' know."

"He was just a local journalist––."

Chucking her phone blindly into his lap, she scoffed harshly, "It ain't just 'im though. It never bloody is with them papers!"

Beside her, he glanced down at the list of voicemails, sighing heavily in sympathy. " _Bastards_."

" _Yeah_ ," she laughed without humour, shaking her head as she forced her eyes closed again until she saw flashes of colour behind her eyes. She could feel her throat beginning to ache with the pressure of the tears she kept swallowing down, the panic she was somehow managing to keep at bay. "I can't do this," she whispered. Suddenly, her hand lashed through there air and came down so hard on her jean-clad thigh that the slap it made caused Charles to jump. _"Fuck!_ I can't fucking do this! I can't go out there once everyone knows – I can't be _that_ girl––!"

Immediately, she could feel him transitioning from on-guard soldier to soft, reassuring husband as he shuffled to pry her away from the bannister. "Hey," he husked, taking her hands into his and guarding them around him, " _You_ can do anything, with enough digging in. I've seen it!"

Immediately, she felt barred by his response, put out by the strength he bestowed. "Yeah? 'nd _how?_ This ain't some bloody assault course, Charles! How could you _possibly_ know––?" She managed ton force herself to stop. Secretly, she was just jealous of his only blind resilience, because she had not felt her own in weeks… Beneath her hands, she felt him stiffen defensively, seemingly prepared for her to chastise him, verbally attack him. She immediately sighed and pressed her face hard against him, muffling her apology as it came. " _Sorry –_ I'm sorry, I just––."

"––No need to apologise," he whispered. She managed a smile as she felt him kiss her hair with his ever-reliable need to give her affection. "You're right, I can't ever _know,_ exactly _."_ He was rocking them from side to side gently as he held her, like Belinda always used to do when she was scared as a kid… and still did, half the time. "But what I _do_ believe – and often have a greater grasp on than you half the time, by the way! – is how bloody strong you are. We _will_ fight this."

She was shaking her head, unable to believe it especially coming from him, because he didn't _know;_ he had no idea what he was talking about. He was claiming she could overcome something that was so _ingrained_ with one's own predisposition to shame, therefore so easily spread, that it made it impossible for her to believe he truly understood it. If he did, she thought, he would know that it never truly leaves you… not even when you're happy and much less when you're asleep.

"If I said that I knew you could beat your own fragged brain after all the Al Shabaab shit just because I knew how strong you were on other tours…would _you_ believe _me?_ Would you not think that it sounded like tosh? Would you _not_ try and tell me that being held hostage was _nothing_ like anything that had ever happened to you in your life before? That life can't _ever_ be the same as before because you can't bloody _remember_ was _before_ was?"

He had no words for her; at least none that came fast enough.

"Getting over this ain't a matter of bein' strong, Charlie," she whispered, rising numbly to head towards their room, leaving her phone behind. "Ain't no such thing when your memory becomes the enemy."


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: Hey y'all,_

 _So... This is the first of those chapters, the build up towards them working out their demons... Forgive me if it takes some unpicking, though, because realisitically I think it would take Molly a good while, knowing how much she struggles with expressing herself. Don't worry though - all will be revealed._

 _That being said - let me know what you think, please, because therapy is really hard to write and I'd love to know what your take on it all is, as readers._

 _LOVE & HUGS, _

_Stars Walk Backward_

* * *

 _"When she stood, she stood with a desolate knowingness  
_ _Waded out into the dark, wild ocean up to her neck  
_ _Bathed in her brokenness,  
_ _Said a prayer of gratitude for each chink in the armor  
_ _she never knew she needed."_

 **–– _"Why She Disappeared", Part II_ \- Taylor Swift**

* * *

 **XXIII**

* * *

As Molly sat in the community hall the next day, she dismayed why she had ever agreed to it. She had just taken her seat, her coccyx already feeling the pressure of the uncomfortable plastic chair as she wrung her hands in her lap, nervously pulling her sleeves down over her fingers. Beside her, a women her senior with dark, beautiful skin, that reminded her of Sergeant King and his stories of his Nigerian heritage, was sat looking at her with an amused expression.

"First time?"

Molly nodded, picking at the split ends of her hair for something to look at. "That obvious?"

"Aye, just a bit," she said wryly, her accent sounding more northern than Molly could place. Newcastle, perhaps? "I'm Nat – the boys call me Nutty. Flight engineer in the RAF," she introduced casually. "I've been coming to these things for six months now; feels like ten years."

Molly sniffed in belief at that comment; she didn't doubt it would. She looked over her new acquaintance, neat frizzy hair and skinny black jeans, and wondered how many people thought as she did, that this woman didn't look at all like a flight engineer in the bloody RAF… but then again, she supposed she hadn't looked like a CMT for long enough either.

"Look," Nutty said softly, seeming to take sympathy on her, "Whatever backward faced twat brought you here… I promise you, we've heard it all already." Her accent is rounded, posher than Molly expected and she smiled easily, like she held no qualms with the world. Molly envied her that. Her trepidation must have shown on her face, because Nutty added: "There is no judgement here."

She hadn't believed Nutty's words at first, because it had sounded like something people just _say_ when they want to appease you, but as the room filled up, their faces ranging from pictures of indifference, trepidation and even acceptance, she listened eagerly to their stories and realised that in order to leap over such a gaping abyss, one had to be prepared to take the jump.

"We have a new face here today," the group leader said, pulling her from her entangled thoughts. "Welcome Molly – do you want to introduce yourself to the group?"

"Not really," she quipped automatically, her nerves getting the best of her as usual. Suddenly, she could have swore she was nineteen again, back in that grim classroom on the first day of the regiment's recruitment drive, forced to speak in front of the entire room of recruits as she nervously triggered her hoodie sleeves over her hands. She had not had much reason to feel like that girl for a long time, she realised and to be feel so completely like that again was more than a little jarring.

"I should reiterate," the group leader, Sharon, added, her thick black hair piled on top of her head, "You can reveal as little or as much as you're comfortable with."

She tried to clear her throat, but it felt painfully dry. "I'm Molly," she managed bluntly, unsure of how else to start. To her amusement, the entire room of women erupted into choruses of _'Hi Molly,'_ just like in all the films she had ever seen in which group therapy was featured. "I have been in since 2013 – out in Afghan on Herrick Nineteen – before final extraction. I'm a CMT an' I train medics for allied forces now."

The easy part was done: give enough information to appear cooperative but not enough for them to be able to identify her from the rest of the world and his wife.

Sharon smiled in a patronising but kind attempt to encourage her, which just made Molly feel, rather immaturely, resentful. She hated being talked down to and always had. It was only the genuine look of empathy, true understanding, from the strangers beside her that kept her from walking out. "An' I'm here because…"

Just like that, the words stopped. At first she considered that it was perhaps because she didn't _have_ words for what had happened to her that would adequately express it… but that was not quite accurate. It wasn't that she didn't have the words; she _burned_ with them, went to bed with them, slept with her on her pillow more closely and intimately than she did the man who lay by her side. She harboured them like some horrific disease, her mind incubating them against her own will, feeding them until they were all the more furious and scorched any self worth she once had.

No, it wasn't that she didn't have the words: she just didn't trust herself to say them, because she suspected if she started she might never stop.

"The first step is the hardest," Sharon said. Molly narrowly managed to avoid rolling her eyes. Did all psychologists always state the bleedin' obvious? "But that is why it is important that we make it."

Pressing her hand against her pocket, Molly felt the shape of her phone there, thinking of Charles and how much she had been trying to tell him the same thing about his dreams, his own blind, blanket denial.

"Mine was my Squadron Leader," Nutty confessed boldly, breaking the oppressive silence – and with it, Molly's internal struggle. Molly watched her, filled with intense gratitude and admiration at the way she spoke the words with such an ownership that it felt as though she was announcing a special guest into the room. "He molested me when I was in basic training; I never knew how to tell anyone for a long time… until it happened to my girl back home, too, and I realised... I realised that you have to speak up or the silence is just going to carry on. That's why I come here."

"There is certainly truth in that," Sharon added, though her attention remained on Molly. "Anyone else comfortable sharing what triggered them to begin telling people what happened to them?"

Charles didn't follow her after she had left him on the stairs the previous night, knowing better than to crowd her, instead getting back to an impatient and oblivious Sam. He had focused his attentions to try and distract himself from the fact that he was _furious,_ with the press for _daring_ to arrive at their door to interrogate a woman who was in the middle of a sexual assault case, with himself for feeling so utterly without a solution, and, in part, at her for shutting him out. He _despised_ feeling like this, which was no doubt why he always valued control and planning in all aspects of his life. But he couldn't control this even if he wanted to.

The simmering tension manifested not only in the stiffness of his body as he made Sam beans on toast over the stove, but also followed him into his dreams. It was the same nightmare as before, his mind replacing Lane with Molly in his memory as she was grabbed and stripped in the desert sand and dust. His mind seemed to be unable to help but torture him with it as he remained, each and every time, tied and unable to move, no doubt symbolic of how helpless he felt. This time though, the nightmare went beyond the ripping of her clothes and the grabbing at her pale breasts with their rough, dirty hands. Their violence intensifies and he fights against his restraints so hard that his joints hurt… and suddenly they are right in front of him, pushing down their stained and mucky trousers with the clumsy speed of desperate men. He cries out to try and stop them, barely able to make out Molly's face from beneath the curtain of her dark hair, but they just laugh, cruel and taunting. Abu is still the main focus in this dream too, but instead of spitting at Lane, he is stroking at Molly's body like she is a his treasure to claim.

 _"Molly, look at me,"_ he tries to say, but it's like she doesn't hear him. He looks up and he feels his pulse jolt at the familiar sight of Abu's eyes staring, unblinking, at him, the rest of his face covered by his dust rag. "Don't you _dare_ fucking touch her!" He growls, pulling again at his restraints, but he can't move. Abu smirks and does the opposite, pulling at her fatigues down around her thighs. As he violently forces himself inside her body, Charles howls until his throat burns, his mouth so dry that his tongue sticks to the inside of his mouth.

" _Charlie_!"

Suddenly, as quickly as it had arrived, the scene of terror disappeared and was replaced with blind confusion as he blinked his eyes open, physically shaken in the dark of his bedroom. Above him, Molly was trying to hold him down, tears shining in her eyes. "Charlie, _shh,_ please. Come back. It's just a dream." He tried to clear his throat, to catch his breath, but the only sound that escaped him is a feeble whimper of pain. He blinked hard to clear his vision as his eyes adjust to the ash of the room and it is only then that he felt the warm stream of tears fall easily past his temples. He grabbed her upper arms, needing to feel her presence under his hands to convince himself that she was alright.

"Shh, you'll wake Sam," she whispered breathlessly as he continued to exhale with sounds of distress. He gritted his teeth as he attempted to calm himself, tightening his hands into the softness of her biceps.

"Sorry, _sorry_ –– _fuck,"_ he sighed, his chest feeling as though it was weighed down. He sat up hastily, angrily dashing at the remainder of tears beneath his eyes. "Fuck. You're okay, yeah? Tell me you're okay—!" Hands on his shoulders, she pressed her lips to his skin, despite the sheen of sweat there. He was trembling was exertion from the dream and anxiety still gripped him like a hand around his throat. He closed his eyes at the sensation of her lips and it made him wilt beneath her.

"I'm fine, I'm here. No one can get us here."

"I want to fucking _kill_ him––." He said it like she hadn't spoken to him at all, staring at the ceiling as he bit into the back of his hand to keep his words in; he had not one inkling what might fall from his lips if he should let it.

"Hey, shh––don't wind yourself up again, mate. You're alright. Try to breathe and go back to sleep."

He shook his head, the image his mind had created still lingering at the forefront of his mind. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, heaving out a humourless chuckle of derision. "If only I could," he whispered.

Keeping her eyes on him, she gently her hand into his damp hair. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He physically deflated, hanging his head in his hands. He focused on bringing in oxygen in through his nose and out through his mouth until his hands weren't shaking anymore, by which time he had all but forgotten that he hadn't answered her.

"Doctor Kahn has said I should go to a support group for 'people like me'," she said, filling the long silence with her own confession when he offered none. "It's tomorrow evening and I'm shitting me'self."

He turned to her, momentarily forgetting his internal turmoil. "Oh? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I ain't had a chance really, with Sam and all," she replied, moving to lay back down.

"I think you should go," he replied with certainty, crawling back onto the bed. "I think… you're right. I won't ever know what it is you're going through and you need to be with people who understand."

" _Yeah,_ okay, but then so do you," she replied poignantly, feeling uneasy with the way he always managed to make things about her, even after _he_ had just woken them both up with a night terror. He was already shaking his head, dismissing the idea, which made her frustrated.

"Charles!"

" _No_ , Molly. What difference would it make––?"

"What _difference_ would it make?" She echoed, disbelieving. "The difference is it will stop this shit rot you from the inside out like this – and stop us from being _completely_ knackered every night!"

He looked up at her and felt ashamed, because he knew, deep down, she was the one making sense. He just didn't want to admit it.

"You were beaten and not allowed to sleep and god knows what else," she whispered carefully. "I think it would be more worryin' if you _weren't_ fragged."

"But that's the thing!" Suddenly, his tone was urgent. "I was kidnapped by a terror cell," he said, only realising afterward that he hadn't said the words aloud before, "but all I can think about, all I see when I close my _eyes…_ is what happened to _you_."

Molly dare not breathe at the delicacy of the moment, afraid he would clam up again. Guilt swarmed in her gut. "––I don't say that to make you feel responsible," he added quickly, seemingly reading her mind. "It's more… _I_ feel responsible. I should have… at least been more available to you, not got myself taken. Lord knows the stress of that was the last thing you needed––."

"You ain't!" She protested weakly, but he shook his head, cutting her off. "Y'can't think like that––."

"––Well, it doesn't stop me _feeling_ it," he replied, giving her a melancholy smile she could only just make out through the dark. "I know it's not rational," he said, "but it's how I feel."

She conceded, putting her head down on her pillow and letting him curl up directly opposite her. He looked so young and vulnerable in these moments, after nightmares had stripped away near all of his usual ego and bravado and left him with puffy eyes and frizzy curls. There was a long, heavy silence between them; the only thing that kept Molly from assuming he had fallen asleep was the way his fingers were caressing through hers, intertwined like roots in the dark.

"I'll go," she whispered. "But only if you go back to see someone, too. Even if it's just bloody Elvis. This ain't gonna _kibosh_ us; it ain't… it ain't right."

She heard rather than felt him inhale deeply as he considered her ultimatum – and then she could hear him smiling, just a little. "You've changed your tune."

"Yeah, well, I've been the fuck-up in this relationship far too long, mate," she drawled sarcastically, though her internal monologue was in fact leaning towards the fact that she was agreeing just so he would agree too.

"You are _not_ ," he scoffed, looking at her so closely that she felt strangely self-conscious. "Don't say that," he whispered, suddenly serious. "It upsets me when you put yourself down like that, you know."

She tried to find him in the dark, only narrowly missing hitting him in the eye as she moved. In the end, her lips fell high on his cheekbone, though she was pleased to feel him chuckle. "It does?" she mumbled, guilty. "Sorry – I don't mean it."

"I know," he said, his lips against her skin. "I thought you knew: only you hold the power to ever, truly, hurt me."

She had gone to sleep with gravity of this confession weighing on her mind, not sure if she was more empowered or terrified. After all, it's just that person that most human beings were most frightened of: the one close enough to get them right through the heart.

"What was that, Molly?" Focusing her wide eyes on Sharon, Molly felt her hands return to their earlier clammy state. She hadn't even realised she had spoken aloud.

"It's them," she sighed, gulping down her fear. "The ones you love, they make you realise you have to be brave; because if you can't do it for you, you do it for them." She looked up at Nutty and saw recognition and approval in her dark eyes.

"That is true," Sharon agreed. "Though, we aim to help each other realise that doing it just for yourself should also be enough."

Molly closed her eyes briefly, looking down at her lap dejectedly. "But it ain't. It should be but it ain't! The world don't work like that, why else is it that these bastards only get _off_ when _dozens_ of women come forward?" She knew she was being proactive, argumentative, almost for the sake of it, but she couldn't stop. "Why ain't it enough for people that just _one_ woman gets—?!" She read the look of surprise on Sharon's face and pulled up short, losing her train of thought as she sighed, frustrated.

"You're right, Molly" Sharon agreed, softly, "it can feel very frustrating when you aren't believed."

"They don't _want_ to believe us," she said, bitterly.

A stranger opposite her hummed loudly in agreement, before adding, "My own dad didn't believe me at first – asked me what I was _wearing._ "

Molly gulped, anxious at the very thought of telling Dave, and furious on behalf of the stranger before her that her own father implied that what she was wearing made _any_ bloody difference to whether or not she deserved it.

"My Nan, too," another agreed. "She asked if I was wearing something that might have provoked him – what kind of _bullshit_ is that?"

Molly clenched her fists in her lap, inwardly _burning_.

"I was wearing my bloody _blues_ ," Nutty snorted dryly, evidently having had this conversation many times before. "Trust me – it hasn't got _anythin_ ' to do with what y'wearin'."

Molly sat silently, blinking hard as she was suddenly assaulted with the memories of the shorts she had been wearing when Captain Lawrence had snuck up on her, bloodstained and stuffed in an evidence bag – along with her old West Ham shirt, which she could no longer bring herself to wear, despite the fact Charles had put it in to wash more than once. She had told him he could burn it one particularly low evening, but of course, he hadn't. It now sat at the bottom of his spare drawer somewhere. She didn't know for sure and hadn't asked.

"I never really liked football," she said suddenly, interrupting just as Sharon went to state yet more obvious bullshit. Fifteen or so pairs of eyes turned back to her, but Molly had her eyes fixed down at her fingers, her mind far away. "But I grew up with West Ham's old stadium bein' right opposite my gaff." There was silence as the room attempted to gauge what she was saying – little did they know she didn't rightly know herself. "And me' dad never really wanted a girl 'cuz he wanted a boy 'e could teach to pilfer and cheat and down lager on match day… but 'e got me. He dragged me to matches when I was little, made me put on a shirt, but I soon got bored of the weekly piss-up and refused to go anymore. Still though, he would buy me a new West Ham shirt every time I grew out of my old one – a knock-off one off the internet though, 'course, not the official strip or nothin'. I always used to think he was trying to change me, tryin' to tell me 'e wanted me to be the kid 'e 'ad dreamed of."

Jump-cuts of the countless bust-ups they had had, the countless times she had shouted so loud her voice hurt because he was drunk and making a mess again despite the fact she had _just cleaned,_ raced through her mind; his snarling when she had finally lost her patience and stood up to him. She wouldn't marry Artan, not for his bullshit cheating benefit scheme, not for anyone. It had been a revelation, not only for her empowerment, but in learning what he expected from her, simply because they shared flash and blood. He had grabbed at her face, nails digging into her neck, furiously pinning her against the brick wall of the Wakefield to try and frighten her. She flinched still as she relived it. "I wasn't what he probably wanted – I was a shitty, gobby madame who just wanted out of where I come from but I never went to school, so I was miserable 'cuz I thought I had no way out… I told 'em I was signing up and 'e bloody lost it; didn't even come to my passin' out ceremony… but then, when I came back from Afghan, there 'e was, wearing 'is bloody West Ham shirt and telling everyone and his wife at the stadium that I was 'is kid and I was going to walk the pitch... an' just like that it felt like we'd finally turned a corner a bit."

Looking up at the sound of a cleared throat, she flushed a little, realising just how much she had rambled, deciding to get to the point.

"I was wearing it," she said, shaking her head, "that bloody manky old West Ham shirt, the night my CO pounced on me," she said, softly, testing out the words as she sadly thought back on the way all the happy times she had known in the sentimental garment had been overshadowed. "An' now I can't even look at it... and I feel like an imposter all over again."

The room filled with a collective murmur of encouragement, which stayed her nerves, at least somewhat.

"Thank you, Molly," Sharon replied. "Hopefully you will come to not feel so much like an imposter – here at least."

As Elvis Harte made his way into his best friend's kitchen to greet him, having let himself in as he always did, he was surprised to see quite how tired Charles looked. He could hear Sam in the living room playing his beloved video games; the young man seemed his usual upbeat self and unaware of his father's weary nature in the other room. He was sat in the kitchen with the back door open, nursing a beer and staring out into their little garden. He didn't seem to hear Elvis come in as he continued to run his thumb back and forth over mouth, looking so very far away.

"Jesus, Charlie boy," he said softly, moving round to throw himself down in the chair beside him, once he had pulled out a beer from the fridge of course. "You're doing that intense staring thing again."

His friend snapped his head around to greet him and fixed an indifferent smirk on his face, rolling his eyes at his arrival. "If you don't like it, you know where the door is. You can let yourself back out again," he replied equally dryly, though the way he held up his beer to chink it implied he was in fact pleased to see him, despite whatever was bothering him.

"Alright well, out with it," Elvis ordered boldly, never one to mince his words. "How have you been? Because, no offence mate, but you look like shit."

Charles grumbled just like Elvis expected he would, looking back at the afternoon sky and taking a pull of his beer. "Ever the charmer," he quipped, conveniently seeming to ignore his friend's question.

"Yeah, well, you have a face like a slapped arse – it's hard to ignore."

Charles managed a smile as he shot his friend another look of derision. "You're beginning to sound a lot like Molly."

Elvis made a face, feigning insult. "I do not sound like a gobby cockney, thank _you_ ," he grumbled, secretly enjoying the way it made him smile. "Where is the upstart medic, anyhow?" It was only now as he looked around him that he couldn't hear any trace of her anywhere. "Is she back on reg duties now?"

Just like that, Elvis saw an unexpected and unreadable expression cross his friend's usually controlled features.

Charles quietly tried to control his immediate impulse to confess all to his friend, knowing that it wasn't his secret to tell. "No," he said, suddenly quiet. "She's been put on leave." The issue was, of course, a seasoned commissioned officer such as Elvis would know that this was not the usual protocol; she would most certainly have gone back to regimental duties by now, no matter whether or not her husband was still on leave for medical reasons. He could feel his friend's many questions in the weight of his gaze.

"What? Why? Is she under investigation?"

Immediately, Charles closed his eyes in dread, knowing he wouldn't be be able to lie to his friend. "No," he denied slowly, feeling the way the words tried to stick to the top of his mouth. "Her CO is."

Elvis frowned, stuttering in confusion, but as the words sank in, he was shaken with just _how_ wrong something must be; he knew Charles better than quite possibly anyone, bar perhaps Molly, and in this moment he could see that the weight of the world was on his shoulders. His usual confidence, which occasionally swayed into arrogance when he was crossed, was nowhere much to be seen in his current posture, his shoulders dipped and his head bowed.

"What? Why?"

Charles still barely looked at him, taking yet another pull of his beer. "I can't say."

He would be lying is he said he hadn't been somewhat slammed by the deniable, having never been closed off by his close friend before – not even when he was divorcing Rebecca.

"You ' _can't say_ '––?" He echoed, sceptical, snorting in doubt.

"–– _No_ , Elvis, I can't," he denied sharply, suddenly sounding impatient. Elvis physically withdrew a little, surprised by the sudden change of tone. His mind was already checking through all the possible reasons why it could be that a young, promising, _decorated_ CMT such as Molly would have been put on leave, why her CO would be being put on a charge and how the two things would be related…

He easily came to a conclusion, it was the only conclusion, but he was already praying with every fibre of his being that he was mistaken, not just for Molly's sake, but for his best friend's too.

"Did he… _hurt_ her?"

When Charles didn't speak, made no move to deny it, Elvis knew he was on the money. His usually stoic, composed friend stared into space and bit his lip, suddenly, _frighteningly_ , looking as though he might cry. Despite the fact he knew Charlie was an emotional bugger, Elvis had only ever seen him cry once before and that was in the moment he vowed to hold Molly above all others until the day that she was 'the last thing he saw', whatever that had meant. In over twelve years of friendship, he had never felt panicked by Charles' reaction to something before, but here, now, he floundered a little, moving closer to his friend instinctually.

" _Shit_ , mate," he exhaled, rubbing his hand of his face. Setting down his beer, he looked intently at Charles, silently urging him to react, to move, anything to break this gut-wrenching silence. He was pulling a hand through his hair, the famous curls all the girls always loved ever since he was a cocky upstart of an Officer in training, studying the horizon as though an insurgent might leap out the fern trees at any moment. His breathing was unsteady, wheezy, though Elvis could see he was trying his best to regulate it.

"Yeah," he whispered croakily, clearing his throat loudly; a sign Elvis knew to mean he was attempting to put on a brave face.

"Is it as bad as I'm thinking?"

Charles looked back and Elvis could finally see the agony in his eyes, the confusion and the worry, wringing his hands in his lap. "I think so," he replied. "He… _cornered_ her… She tried to get away but... not before he..."

Elvis didn't begrudge him for not finishing that sentence. "Fucking _monster._ "

"It happened the night before I was taken," he groaned, the thought evidently haunting him. "I knew something was wrong but I just thought she was homesick–– _God_ , Elvis––What kind of husband _am_ I? How could I have not _heard_ it in her voice?"

"Because you ain't psychic, mate, that's all," Elvis reassured easily. "She won't begrudge the fact you weren't in the same part of the world to do anything about it – I mean, what exactly could you have done? Hijack a bloody MERT and fly yourself there?"

Charles was pouting, evidently not wanting to admit the lack of logic his guilt was based on. "I thought about it," he grumbled sulkily, which only made Elvis grin. He was sure he bloody would have, too, if he knew _how_ to fly one of the bloody things.

"And you say you're not a good husband," Elvis chuckled, reaching over to ruffle his friends hair. "You – _Sword of Honour_ , regiment golden child and all round _rule_ _police_ – just admitted to considering _high treason_ for this woman." He only narrowly managed to avoid adding that, for such an uncharacteristic transformation in his friend, Molly must be quite brilliant in the sack, thankfully realising that it was hardly an appropriate topic to joke about at the moment. "I think that says it all, don't you?"

Charles' eyes were guarded again, as though he wasn't quite there, reliving something he would really rather not. Elvis felt the change as his friend moved stiffly to stand, pacing a little, staring back into nothing again.

"She was all I could think of," he murmured, so softly Elvis had to strain to hear. "I thought I was going to die and all I could think of was how I had failed her by breaking our promise."

Elvis felt a pang or something uncomfortable, envy and resentment, niggle in his chest. His own disastrous love life felt like a pathetic, limp afterthought when he listened and observed the way his friend all but worshipped Molly – and she him. He did feel for them, though, because the more they went away, the more likely it was that one of them just might not make it back, leaving the other widowed and living in a house that had memories of their love everywhere you looked. Charles' thoughts seemed to be following a similar path, as he was now standing before the wedding portrait that hung on the wall, turning his wedding ring around his finger.

"Now, even though I made it back alive, I just feel like I still failed her in the worst way."

"You didn't, C," Elvis said easily, putting his foot down. "It's a horrific thing to happen but even if you'd been in the same country – bloody hell, the same _province –_ there was _nothing_ you could have done." Charles managed a weak smile of gratitude, breaking his gaze away from the image of himself with his head in Molly's lap, one he long had memorised, and taking his seat again. "Poor girl is going to have to get through this herself. What matters now is that you're here for her on her shittest days, like you are for Two Section... and like you were for me."

Charles managed a weak attempt at humour as he rolled his eyes. "I save your arse, more like!" Elvis conceded rather than arguing him on this point as he usually would, intent on making sure he knew just how important he was to him. If Charles noticed, he didn't say anything, instead standing to offer him another beer, despite the fact that he had only had but a few sips of the one he had.

"How are _you,_ though?" Elvis pushed, trying his best to ignore how uncomfortable it felt for him to be asking. Usually, he would let a sleeping dog lie, especially one with a frosty bite like Charles, but the far off look in his eyes frightened him. "Aside from Molly, how you fairing? I'd imagine being holed up with those Shabaab _bastards_ wasn't a picnic."

Charles was moving again, walking to fridge to fetch himself another beer quietly, almost as though Elvis hadn't spoken. Elvis held his breath, praying for the reaction to not be too thunderous.

"It doesn't matter how _I_ am," he shrugged.

Now he didn't hesitate to roll his eyes. "Oh, don't give me that tripe, Charles – I _wrote_ that shit."

Charles' eyes were clenched as he leaned against the kitchen counter, looking very much in pain with the weight of the world. "It's not _like_ that!" Suddenly he was fired up, furiously searching for a bottle-opener in the cutlery drawer as though all the utensils in there deserved some kind of punishment. "There isn't _room_ for worrying about me!" His words were urgent, falling from his mouth without structure or much coherence. "I'm the fortunate one in this – I'm _alive_. I have…my _limbs_ , my fingernails weren't pulled off, my ribs have all but mended – I'm hardly the symbol of the worst a terror cell can do to their captives – and even if I were, I wasn't… _raped––_!" He visibly cringed as he said the word, enough that Elvis noticed distinctly the way he forced it from his mouth like it was the most obscene of slurs. He didn't move form against the counter, staring down at the kitchen tiles as though they might possess the answers to all of his problems.

Elvis moved over to him cautiously. "Charlie, mate…" he began.

"I just _can't_ ," he said, flatly, evidently having made up his mind. "I don't have the energy to deal with all _my_ shit on top of hers right now and if I have to choose between she or I, it's always going to be her, Elvis. It _has_ to be her."

Elvis sighed, rubbing over his beard as he did when he was anxious, stepped into the breach, extending a gentle hand onto Charles' bowed shoulder, squeezing it. Immediately, the rattling of the cutlery stopped as he froze, momentarily stiff, before wilting under the small, but sincere, gesture of affection as though it suddenly gave him the permission he needed to relax. The pretence of searching for the utensil forgotten, he just stared into the drawer, seemingly to avoid having to look him in the eye.

Elvis admired his friend for many things: his steadfast loyalty despite when his friend was being an utter cock and sending him to jilt a woman at the alter; his dedication to his job, his resolve in the face of death; his utter, automatic selflessness when someone he cared for was in danger, or even once they were already dead. Mostly though, Elvis had always been floored by his ability to love so very completely, as though no heartbreak had ever barbed him before. _It has to be her._ The words bounced around Elvis' mind as he tried to place why they sounded so familiar.

"You shouldn't have to choose between her wellbein' and yours, Charlie," he said, as only a friend could. "You _both_ need to get well, or what is going to happen when she's better and she turns around and realises that her husband's in bits?" Brown eyes rose to meet fellow brown eyes as Charles finally rose his chin, seeming to digest his words. "You have to find _you_ again too, mate, because _this_?" He motioned between them, raising the bottle opener he had spotted minutes ago into his eye line poignantly. It had been on the counter, right in front of Charles' nose and he hadn't noticed. "This isn't you… and I'm sure Molly would agree."

The sound of the front door closing cut their conversation short, Molly's soft _'It's just me,'_ shortly following from the hallway, companies by the sound of her removing her shoes. Charles squinted in confusion, looking down at his watch.

"You're _back_?" He called loud enough for her hear, looking bemused. As she appeared in the doorway, he looked almost wounded. "I said I'd come and get you if it finished after dark. Why didn't you message?"

The comment slipped from his mouth without thinking, forgetting that they had a visitor whom Molly didn't yet know knew her secret. Immediately, his friend moved back to the seating by the French doors at the other end of the kitchen, putting some polite distance between himself and their conversation.

Molly didn't seem all too concerned though. One stolen glance and Elvis could see how exhausted she was – even more so than Charles, though in a much less obvious way. She looked... cautious, guarded, careful; all words that Elvis would have previously never considered using to describe Molly Dawes.

She gave her husband a poignant, deadpan expressing, indicating towards the second beer in his hand with a mocking raised eyebrow. "Oh, you were, were ya'?"

"It's just a small one," he said, flippantly; stubbornly. "They're practically water."

"Well, I ain't gonna disagree with that," she grumbled, momentarily sounding a lot like Dave when he turned his nose up at being offered 'posh drinks' at the James' at Christmas. She never did approve of his taste for German premium lager.

Charles moved to sit back down beside Elvis, slightly jarred by her lack of physical greeting, though he didn't say anything in front of Elvis. Without asking, he handed her a beer – a longterm symptom of marital autopilot. He knew just by the look of her that she would want one and this moment was no different; her eyes were red and her face pale, her expression resigned. It was a kick in his stomach at the thought that she had been crying.

She thanked him and turned, giving a smile that both men could see was entirely for Elvis' benefit. "I had a last minute drink with Brains, so he picked me up on his way past," she said. "The bugger finally answered my messages."

Charles raised his eyebrows, surprised to hear mention of one of Two Section. "How is the Scouse smart-arse?"

"Ever hopeless at chattin' up the poor barmaids," Molly snorted, leaning against the doorframe and looking out into the night sky and the pretty fair lights in their garden. As she laughed, Elvis noticed, just momentarily, how she slipped back into the Molly he recognised. "How's life treating you then, dickhead?" Molly asked, looking across at Elvis with her usual tongue-in-cheek smirk that made him want to laugh.

"Alright, I suppose," he replied, attempting to be flippant despite the fact the look in Molly's eye told him she knew more than she was willing to divulge. _"What?"_

"I heard that it was treating you a li'le more than alright, tha'sall," she said, feigning nonchalance as she referred to the one or two vibes she remembered noticing at Charles' welcome home gathering between he and a certain medic. "If it is, then it's more than you deserve."

The swipe at his character was a given by now; Molly had long made her views on jilting Georgie at the alter – (and sending Charles across Manchester on his bad leg to deliver the news) – loud and clear. So much so, it was now an easy, well-trodden topic for piss-taking and it didn't bother him. He had long accepted that he deserved it.

"I don't know _what_ you mean," he replied, refusing to rise to the bait, draining his beer. "Charlie, won't you get your mouthy woman in line? She's incredibly rude."

The three of them grinned; the quips between them flowed easily and without any offence. Molly fell quiet and rubbed her eyes – they were itchy from crying – just as a yawn overcame her against her will. Charles' nightmare had kept them both up in the end and long after he had settled off again, she hadn't, having been kept awake dreading the group therapy session.

Charles was watching her closely, Elvis observed – in the way a CO would always watch their men after they had had contact with the enemy, looking for signs of distress or detachment. Evidently, there was much that they were waiting to discuss once he had left. Something told him that she felt her husband's intense observation, because suddenly, she sighed.

"I'm gonna' go run a bath, I think," she said lightly, moving towards the arm of the chair in which Charles sat.

"I'll be up soon," Charles replied gently, looking up at her as she stepped closer. "Tell Sam it's his five minute warning, will you?"

She smiled and hummed in agreement before leaning down from above him to press a kiss to the crown of his head, fingers momentarily smoothing through his curls. Elvis watched the subtle gesture with a soft smile, silently swamped with an intense gratitude for this woman and the comfort she had been to his friend over the years in ways only a woman could have been. He had been a closed book once Rebecca had run off, firm and distracted, ever professional to the point of near-constant indifference. There had been a point when Elvis hadn't been sure if he would be able to reach him in the way he once had, as he started ignoring phone calls and attempts to meet at the pub in favour of extra regimental duties and as many tours as he could get his hands on. He had considered the fourth to be a mistake, a clear act of misdirection, as he simply was hiding from the fact that Rebecca was leaving him… and that he had grown so far apart from her that he didn't even care that she was.

He had been right; it was a cluster-fuck of a final tour in an active war-zone, resulting in him coming home on a stretcher, fighting for his life in Birmingham. Elvis had dreaded visiting him in hospital, having expected the darkest, most horrendous mood to have engulfed him as he had been staring down the barrel of the gun that was medical discharge… The last thing he had expected was what greeted him when he had arrived: the usually brooding bastard simpering ridiculously in his morphine-hazed dozing. He remembered thinking as he settled at the side of the bed that if he didn't know any better, he would have thought that his friend was in love.

It would be six months before Charles would finally confess to him just how true that was… and that was only because Molly backed him into a corner and forced him to square up to his feelings.

"I assume I won't see you again for a while since you like to go leaping off being a maniac," she quipped towards Elvis, a gentle hand smoothing over Charles' shoulder. "Try not to be too much of an idiot."

"Can't promise anything I'm afraid," Elvis said easily. "You know me; gotta' be the hero."

Molly rolled her eyes as she moved to leave. "Yeah, mate, I _know._ I blame you for Bossman-Shabaab-Hostage over there."

Elvis couldn't help but laugh and Charles, surprisingly, followed. It was a strange thing to laugh about, considering the weight of their previous conversation just a few minutes before, but Elvis felt incredibly pleased to see him looking lights again, even if it was just for a fleeting moment.


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: Hey y'all,_

 _So... As you all know, I've been having a pretty shit time. These two are the only things giving me joy right now – mad, huh? It's a goner with how much I adore them._

 _Anyway, I have had this in my head pretty much since the beginning of the story as to how, maybe, CJ would ask Molly not to tell people about them... but that could only last so long..._

 _This is part I of II... the second of which will be rated M, just saying. ;)_

 _LOVE & HUGS, _

_Stars Walk Backward_

* * *

 _"See you in the dark,  
All eyes on you, my magician._  
 _All eyes on us_  
 _You make everyone disappear,_

 _and_ _cut me into pieces.  
_ _Gold cage, hostage to my feelings.  
_ _Back against the wall:  
_ _Trippin', trip-trippin' when you're gone._

 _'Cause we break down a little_  
 _And when you get me alone, it's so simple,_  
 _'Cause baby, I know what you know._  
 _We can feel it._

 _And our pieces fall right into place;  
Get caught up in the moment:_  
 _Lipstick on your face._  
 _So it goes..._

 _I'm yours to keep_  
 _and I'm yours to lose._  
 _You know I'm not a bad girl, but I'd do bad things with you,_

 _So it goes..."_

 **–– _"So it Goes..." – t.s_**

* * *

 **XXIV**

* * *

 **Two Years Earlier – Late 2014**

* * *

The day Charles had finally confessed to Elvis about his relationship with a medic previously from his Secton, it had been, believe it or not, only because Molly had forced his hand.

She had been out with new friends she had made on her first tour training ally medics, Georgie among them, in a very flash Central London bar that Georgie had, of course, picked out. It was the kind of place that seemed quiet and intimate until 23:00 hours, at which point it become a neon wonderland of beborchuary and intrigue. Molly would have never have dreamed of setting foot in such a place one upon a time, but she had the odd bit of money to spare from her deployments by then and, as Georgie had pointed out, they fucked _earned_ it going back out to Afghan just as the rest of the British Army was finally getting out of there. So, she had agreed to it, excited to finally get dressed up for an occasion that required going out in public, having up until that point only really had reason to rest up when visiting Charles… which had been entirely on the down-low. Well – that and whenever one of them had been away, they were usually lucky if they left the house at all. Charles had been so busy that week, she recalled, that they had barely had chance to speak beyond a quick conversation before bed, so it slipped her mind to tell him of her plans beforehand. It was only once her phone had buzzed as she sat on the floor of the girls' budget hotel room doing her make up that she stopped to realise that she hadn't told him where she would be.

 _Sorry, I've been MIA,_ he wrote. _  
I don't care what anyone says: no amount of hot bubble baths make joint-training exercises with Three Section in the Brecon Beacons worth it._

She grinned and simpered down at the screen, unable to help but picture a muddy Charles…up to his chin in _bubbles_ …

"Okay, Moll, _who_ are you texting?"

Her heart had leapt in her chest, mid-reply, and practically threw her phone between her thighs and out of sight from Georgie prying eyes.

The strange thing was, Molly realised in that moment, she wouldn't have been all too bothered if they had found out. She never once worried her her friends would ruin it for her… it was in fact Charles' paranoia that remained.

She was a East Ham girl, so of course she hadn't questioned him on it. She had begun their relationship so simply very _baffled_ and considering herself so very privileged to have him at all and therefore, almost without really noticing, she had given him his way. She had done as he has asked and told no one – not even Jackie.

Eventually, she had _had_ to concede that she was seeing someone after too many moments caught grinning at her phone – or the one occasion she had arrived at Barracks looking like shit before they had had their first fight. Still though, she had refused to give details. After a few hundred times asking, Jackie had finally given up expecting an answer.

"Oh, it's her _mystery_ man," Jackie joined in, swigging one of the ciders she brought up from the bar.

"There's a _man?_ " Georgie gasped excitedly, applying make up into her already-perfect eyebrows. "I _knew_ it! You always did get suspiciously regular post. Not even my mum writes to me that often, and she cried the day I first got the bus to school on me' own!"

Molly had chosen to remain silent on the issue, pursing her lips to try and keep from grinning like a maniac. It barely worked.

"There's no point, G, she won't tell. I've been at her for _months_ about it and I still don't even know the bastard's name."

"'cause it don't matter!" Molly argued easily, pushing her hair from her face and focusing back on her task. "He's private about shit and last thing I need is you lot stickin' your oars in. The army is such a small world, Two Section would know and be starting the bloke back to his gaff within hours!"

"Ha! So, he _is_ army?"

Molly remembered how her stomach had dropped and the hair on her neck pricked with the mistake. She had pretended not to notice the way Jackie's eyes had practically burned question marks into her back. It didn't take a genius to work out that there was only so many people that the man could therefore be, as she had only been in the army a handful of years and had been in Two Section for a greater most recent portion of that time. That and, of course, she had been rumoured to have been sweet on Smurf, until… well, _until_.

Molly tensed so suddenly she almost drew a thick black line right across her face in her best eyeliner.

"I'm sayin' nothing," Molly laughed nervously, rising to hurry to the bathroom to hide from the line of questioning. "Besides – I don't ask you lot who _you've_ been shaggin'!" Sniggering at their instant barrage of protests, she shut the door to cut them out. Her heart skipped as she looked back down at her phone as it vibrated again in her hand.

Oh, Charlie, she had wanted to sigh. Always so bloody _keen…_

 _Hello? Earth to Dawes?_

Grinning, she perched on the toilet, chewing her lip to keep from cackling as she drafted her response.

 _Sorry, Bossman,_ she typed, knowing how much it irked him when she still called him that. _Was just distracted by the thought of your mucky drawers in a bubble bath… Bit smelly, are ya?_

Looking at herself in the mirror opposite, she caught sight of the expression that she wore, unconsciously, as she looked down at his name. Immediately, she shook her head in dismissal of herself, half tempted to tell her reflection to get a grip… But the vibration of in her hand pulled her self deprecating up short.

Bemused, she realised that he had sent her a picture message. Tapping to open it, she felt her heart leap ever so slightly at the sight of a photograph of a pristine bubble bath – his scarred, toned calf and long toes just peaked out from the water. She had to take a moment to digest the fact that he was texting her _from_ said bubble bath… Suddenly, it was all she could do not to zoom into the photo with her thumbs and study it closely for glimpses of anymore bare flesh. Sadly, the placement of the mountains of bubbles was all too fortunate.

 _Not smelly now, no, Dawes._

She had to tell herself to calm down as she felt her heart raise in her chest. Six whole _months_ she had been with him and yet their time apart had also been plentiful, too. It had been over two weeks since she had seen him, what with her being busy with the regiment training for her NCO position and he away playing Two Section's babysitter in the countryside. In the grand scheme of things, two weeks was pittance compared to what they were capable of: she had been away for two months after their first night together, after all. But suddenly, at the thought of him but a few hours away in a warm bubble bath, two weeks felt like an eternity.

 _You say I'm the bloody tease!_ She typed with haste, aware of the chatter of the girls on just the other side of the door and how long she could get away with hiding for.

Almost immediately, her phone vibrated again:

 _Well, sometimes you have to fight fire with fire._

She rolled her eyes, without the patience for his riddles.

 _Fire? What's on fire? Ain't got a schooby what you're on about. Anyway, how do I know this ain't just a photo you stole from Google to tease me? Where are you?_

She was goading him; they both knew she would know the scar on his left leg anywhere.

 _Why don't you come over here and find out,_ came his reply.

Attached was another photograph, this time of his face looking directly into the camera. He wasn't one for taking photographs of himself, but when he did he was frustratingly good at capturing the unquantifiable _thing,_ whatever it was, that made his eyes shine with silent conversation and, subsequently, made her stomach turn over. He was paler than he had been after over six months in the UK and only just beginning to gain some bulk again... but he was undeniably handsome – and Molly was long convinced that he knew it. She had therefore taken it upon herself to tease him about his patchy, and rather pathetic, chest hair among other things, just to make sure he never let himself in his ego. (Secretly, she loved it, because it did suit him: masculine, tidy, prim and proper).

That being said, she would have been lying if she had said that the sight of his bare chest and the soapy water just below didn't make her want to worship him, just a little...

She noted that the bathroom wasn't one she recognised, so he wasn't at his parents'… and there was no way you could ever get a bath of such finery at barracks, if a bath at all. Still though, she felt her body tighten at the very insinuation of running off to be with him, all warm and covered in suds––

 _No,_ she scolded herself, pressing her face against the wall. _You had this night out with the girls planned for ages._

Instead, she opted for her usual false nonchalance and replied:

 _Well, that depends. I ain't sure you're worth it._

His reply was practically immediate.

 _I could make it worth it, Dawes – and you know it._

She could feel the heat rushing to her cheeks at the memory of him and his... _generosity_ when they were physically intimate. Ever since their very first time, when he had been lumbered down with that bloody cast on his leg, and he had asked her what she had _liked..._ only for her to confess that she had never managed to reach the desired happy ending during her previous sexual encounters and, in doing so, inadvertently sent him on a rampant quest to show her what she had been missing. She had too many beautiful moments in her mind to tell one from another, mostly because she was all but unconscious with pleasure during most of them, but, one fact remained that she knew for certain: he did indeed make it all worth it.

 _You're not hiding in some other bird's bathroom, are you?_

She accompanied the question with multiple emojis in order to make her teasing clear.

 _I'm at Elvis' temporary place – it's was his birthday the other week and we're celebrating tonight, remember?  
_ _P.S. There is no other 'bird'. I'm a one bird man, thank you._

It was only then that Molly recalled Charles telling her he would be in Essex for Elvis' birthday weeks ago… followed by a night out… in _London_... She had completely forgotten and, given their lack of communication in for two weeks, she had also forgotten to tell him she was going out on the town in London that night, too.

Immediately, she felt her pulse speed up with insecurity, not only at the thought of Charles being out drinking, dressing in his fancy shirts, where women could _see_ him... but at the idea that he was going to be with Elvis. Nothing good ever came of those who when they were together. Unable to help herself, she probed.

 _What, so I'm your Hedwig, am I? Oh, I completely forgot – off out out, are you then? Don't let that pillock get you trollied._

She was nervous in the few seconds it took waiting for his response.

 _I'm assuming by 'that pillock', you mean Elvis?_ he wrote. _I'm a grown man, Molly. I know when to stop drinking – although the same cannot be said for him._

She knew she had hit a nerve by the use of her full name, which he only used when they argued or when he was talking about her to other people.

 _Alright - keep your wig on! I was just saying - I don't trust him not to let you fall in a gutter just so he can film it and sell the video to Ladbible._

She knew bringing up it up would rile him; he had told her of the unfortunate video of him that Elvis had sent into You've Been Framed during their first year under the strict condition that she not tell a soul.

 _That was once and it was very much pre-LadBible's existence, as well you know._

 _Sorry, mate,_ she replied.  
 _Sometimes I forget you're practically going grey._

Deciding to give as good as she got, she checked her make up in the mirror before holding the phone up to take her own photo, tilting her face until the shine of her highlighted cheekbone caught the light perfectly. She held the gaze of the camera from under her subtle false eyelashes, the likes of which she hadn't worn since signing up, imaging that he was him that was here right in front of her. She looked down at the picture of herself, surprised to find she didn't hate the photo, and quickly decided hat it was just enough to tease him back without digitally incriminating herself. He would be able to just make out the curve of her cleavage if he looked at the bottom left, she smirked, and the eyes she gave would tell him all of what she was thinking. It took all of two seconds and yet Molly knew it would be like throwing a dog a bone.

 _Less of the old, you,_ he wrote.

 _Where you off to tonight then?_ she replied. _You better get a jig on or you'll be going out all pruned, you layabout,_ she typed, attaching the photo with it.

She watched the three little animated dots jump above the message box that told her he was typing out a reply.

 _Never mind where I'm off to – where are you off to, dressed up like that?_

She could envisage the stern pouting expression he wore when he was jealous and it usually made her grin, smug and pleased in equal measure that she could affect him so. On this particular occasion however, she couldn't shake her slight discomfort, though she couldn't quite put her finger on where it was coming from.

 _It's Jack's drinks thing,_ she informed, deliberately keeping her choice of words vague. _Why? Do you like me again now?_ She added a wink emoji for good measure. She hadn't allowed herself to dwell on where exactly her impulse to joke in such a way had come from.

 _You know I bloody well do more than like you,_ he wrote.

She could practically hear his no-nonsense tone. Her phone vibrated again as his messages come in quick succession.

 _You look delectable, by the way... although I do wish that view could just be for me. Sure you don't want come to London and shrug off your party? I'll fake rabid illness to get out of Mahiki's tonight, just say the word... Elvis has drunk so much already I don't think he'll even notice._

Molly felt her heart leap reading the name of the bar, excitement trickling through her veins like a delicious drug. It couldn't be... could it?

"Moll, are you done yet? Did you fall down the loo?! We're ready to go!" Jackie called, making her jump. She had closed her eyes to try and calm herself and keep herself from getting her hopes too high. She checked herself in the mirror one last time, taking in the her low cut black top and the skin-tight leather trousers that Georgie had forced her into and completing her usual mental checklist. Lipstick? Not smudged. Eyeliner? Even. Perfume? Check.

Only then, she took a deep breath and put on her best nonchalant voice as she opened the door. "The place Georgie got us into, what's it called again?"

"Um... Mahiki's, right, G?" Jackie was wearing a white jumpsuit that showed off all her greatest attributes as she pulled at Molly's hand immediately to beckon her away, urging her to put on her heels and hurry up.

She was so eager to start drinking in fact, she didn't notice the way Molly now grinned from ear-to-ear, suddenly like the cat that got the cream.

 _Careful, Boss, s_ he wrote hurriedly, practically giddy. _What you wish for and all that._

She didn't tell Charles what she now realised, that they were going to end up in the same bar, deciding it would be much more fun to let him find out for himself.

–x–

By the time the women arrived at the swanky Kensington establishment of Mahiki's, they had frequented the hotel bar for long enough. Molly's face felt slightly, pleasantly, numb with drink, though she was so anxious to see Charles, her heart fluttered every time she glanced at the clock. She forced herself not to check her phone, not wanting the others to quiz her until she had well and truly prepared herself – and partly because she wanted to make him sweat. She had known it was a risky move, backing Charles into a corner, but she was sick of having the same awkward disagreement about how much longer they should keep their relationship a secret. She had become more and more insecure that he didn't mean it when he said he simply enjoyed the fact they were their own little secret, got _off_ on it in fact. But that in itself was becoming problematic for her, because like a virus, once an idea had taken root, it couldn't be unthought. It gnawed at her until it was all she could worry about: while he did love her, would it be enough once the excitement of their secret lost its gleam?

She realised that this was her chance to test that theory, once and for all, despite the fact that she was frightened to in case her family was proven right.

As they arrived, Molly felt herself consciously walking straighter, pursing her lips and behaving as she expected women in such an establishment to behave; how Georgie behaved. They were placed in a booth in the centre of the main room, which was filled with plush velvet lounge furniture despite the fact that the club was, supposedly, tiki themed. There was low, sultry latin dance music paying in the background that Molly remembered thinking she had never heard before. Georgie had gotten them in purely because she knew a promoter apparently – she seemed to know a great deal of the right people for any given need – she they were provided with a free custom vodka cocktail. In the kind of establishment Molly was used to back then, it would be been vodka and come obscene food colouring in plastic a fish ball with a tiki straw. If she had been honest with herself or the others, that's what she had expected when the server said that they would be getting a treasure chest sharing cocktail.

She therefore tried her very best not to let her chin hit the polished wood floor when what in fact arrived was an _actual_ treasure chest filled with ice, rose petals, and slices of many types of fruit, all decorating a rose coloured liquid. Thick white mist from dry ice rose mysteriously from it and made the entire thing look more like a stage prop than something to drink from. Georgie looked very much at home throughout, taking photographs of them all and all-but playing hostess. Jackie, comparatively, sat beside Molly and laughed at practically everything the Mancunian did and said, finding her seemingly ingrained ability to be glamorous hilarious.

"All _this…_ is just a drink?" Molly knew she was being needlessly incredulous, but she couldn't help it. It felt over-exuberant to Molly as someone from a background where a drink was just something to get you pissed.

"Amazin', isn't it?" Georgie giggled, taking a photograph of Molly as she sipped through the long straw and dipped her face into the mist of the dry ice. "It's their special Champagne cocktail – hope that's okay."

Molly had never had champagne before that night, though she wasn't about to admit it to Georgie. The sweet fizz of the mixture was heavenly and she couldn't help but grin and take a rather irresponsibly long pull through the straw.

"So, this is the main room, and then they have private VIP booths for parties down on the other side where you can draw the curtains and everything – you have to be super posh to get those," Georgie explained, proficiently. "It's like a beach party after midnight, really."

Molly had squinted at her friend, curious. "How do you know all this shit? Come to Mayfair often, do ya'?"

Georgie pursed her lips as though she hadn't really wanted to reply at first – though she gave in. "My dick of an ex used to bring me here," she confessed, though Molly was pleased to see she didn't look too sad mentioning him. Molly had heard about the entire jilted-at-the-alter fiasco before she had even met Georgie a few months prior, Charles having relayed his fury and frustration about his friend's behaviour to her in private.

Immediately, Molly felt her nerves heighten, guilt swarming in her gut as she subtly looked around for any sign of Charles. She had never met Elvis, but she knew what he looked like having seen photographs of he and Charles together at Charles' parents' house at Royal Crescent. She knew she should confess to her new friend, admit that she knew of the man that Georgie had told her about since they became friends socially. Her first humanitarian stint in Afghan training medics had been where they had met and since Georgie had been an NCO at the time and Molly still a Private, they hadn't had too much in the way of rank or age separating them, so their acquaintance had been easy. She had only confessed about Elvis to Molly a few weeks after it happened, not aware, of course, that Molly already knew. She had tried her best to look shocked. Apparently she was a better liar than she had previous thought.

"Jokes on him," Georgie carried on, oblivious. "I know the staff well, so I get in for free now."

Molly soon excused herself under the pretence of needing the toilet, both guilt and impatience getting the better of her. She walked with confidence through the wide corridor and into the connecting room, where there was yet another dance floor area surrounded by animate tables and, as Georgie had described, larger curtained booths a few steps up, overlooking the room.

It didn't take long for her to spot the handsome face of Charles, even amongst the many faces and dim, warm lighting. She allowed herself to just _watch_ him for a long moment; partially facing her on the flush velvet chaise, dressed in a smart black shirt, unbuttoned enough to expose his sternum in the warmth of the club, beside a man with a thick beard, laughing at something Elvis was saying – well, sniggering was more like it. He was taking a long sip from a wine glass when he then did something that made Molly's heart stir: looked down toward his lap to check his phone.

Immediately, she pulled her own from the bag as she leaned again the wall across from him, feigning the nonchalance of someone who was waiting for a friend to return from the bathroom. She watched as he seemed to deliberate while the other men were too chatty to notice, perhaps trying to decide whether to text her again.

She decided to beat him to it.

 _That's a bloody nice shirt for you to be dribbling wine all over it, mate._

She waited, grinning, for the penny to drop as she watched him as he received the message. He glanced down at his phone as though it had shocked him, for a moment losing his controlled and nonchalant expression that he had down to an art. Immediately, he couldn't help but look over his shoulder before stilling to keep from the other men noticing his sudden alertness.

She giggled, glad for the great number of people around the moderate buzz of music and conversation for giving her the vail of anonymity for a moment or two longer. Elvis had his back to her and was still talking in a voice that was loud and animated, even over the music. Charles was no longer listening to him, that much was clear, though he was incredibly good at pretending; she watched him look up while his fingers typed from muscle memory beneath the table. A moment later, her phone chimed, making her jump.

 _Can we had psychic abilities to the list of things I have yet to learn about Molly Dawes, the enigma?_

Molly had barely understood what he meant by that last part, so she had opted for more teasing.

 _Why ain't you ever wearing black more often?_

This time, he didn't reply, but looked around the space with determination. She felt her heart hammer in her chest as his eyes slipped over her, momentarily not seeing her, before giving her a double take and settling his dark eyes back over her again. This time, he took her in and attempted to quash the shocked chuckle and neutralise the smug smirk that slipped across his features. His gaze was hot as he took her in and it made her want to look at the ground in self-consciousness, but she refused to give into it. Instead, she felt his gaze remain heavily on her as he bit his lower lip – that look alone was enough to almost make her lose her resolve and walk over to him. Elvis said something to him and she felt the break of his eye contact like a cloud suddenly shielding the sun. She had watched as he pretended to be enthused by whatever he was being asked, but the moment it wasn't obvious, he couldn't help but look straight ahead and meet her eye again.

Her phone chimed, forcing her to break their locked gaze.

 _How dare you stand there looking like that without warning me?_ She could practically hear his voice when he feigned a strop. _A man could use some warning._

She exhaled a snort, looking up at him alluring from beneath her lashes as she replied.

 _Is that Rupert speak for 'I'd shag that'?_

She watched him sneak his gaze toward his lap to read the message and felt her heart grow three sizes at the grin that broke out on his face before he could stop it.

 _Well, that depends,_ he wrote. _What's your availability later? Shall we go halves on a Travellodge?_ She had laughed at that. Sometimes the bastard was very funny.

 _P.S._ , he added, _In all seriousness, you look fucking incredible and I'm currently finding it very hard not to break my cover and come over there and rip those leather trousers right off you, public place or not._

For Charles, that was practically filthy. He very rarely wrote down detailed carnal truths – not in text messages anyway – perhaps in case someone like Sam was to get into his phone. To read such a thing in a public place had riled her up in the most delicious way.

 _Why don't you break your cover, then? (Please?)_

Elvis poked Charles across the table, seeming to chastise him for being on his phone. Charles shrugged him off, but Elvis was laughing. Charles' cheeks looked as though they were perhaps going a little pink, though she wondered perhaps it was the light.

 _I don't think that would be the best idea. Elvis is very rowdy tonight._

His dismissal had hurt. She could remember that now as she looked back on it years later. She had felt it acutely despite the fact that his words hadn't been harsh and had clearly not intended to hurt her – but that was just _it._ His nonchalance hurt because it made her feel as though he wasn't so gutturally in love with her in the way she was with him, that it was all a throw away. It had reminded her of how much more detached from his emotions he could be... and how easily he could _demolish_ every and all ounce of trust she had left with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

Her disappointment must have been written all over her face, because his expression changed once he looked back at her this time, his tell-tale frown line appearing between his brows. She had immediately not wanted to there anymore, feeling foolish for thinking he might actually want to show her off the way she did him. Shame making her cheeks burn, she turned in her heel and hurried back in the direction of the nearest bar. She needed a drink but she couldn't face forcing a smile to the others quite yet.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch bag but she ignored it, promptly ordering a gin and tonic – something she never would have drank before she met Charles – and practically downing it despite its hefty price tag. He could go and fuck himself, she could remember thinking, if he thought he could text his way out of this on with a few flowery words.

"I hope you asked for their best gin in that," came an all too familiar voice from behind her, the low rumble of it making her nerves tingle against her own will. She continued facing forward, gazing at the beautiful display of liqueur bottles behind the barman. Charles quickly slipped in beside her but continued to face the front, too, speaking to her subtly without turning in her direction and despite the fact she wouldn't look at him. It felt as though they were on parade, quietly muttering without actually acknowledging each other's presence with their body language.

"Honest, mate, I ain't all that bothered," she had said bitterly, knowing she sounded immature, but not quite able to find it within herself to care. She had wanted him to know she was hurt, no matter how it made her look. She could feel him stealing glances at her, though he still made no move to acknowledge her or embrace her, therefore only exemplifying the elephant in the room.

"How was your physical yesterday?" he asked, awkwardly trying to get a read on her mood.

"Fine, all clear," she replied, her anger momentarily lapsing until she felt him steal a glance at her again. She nervously took another gulp of her drink.

"That's no way to drink a gin and tonic," he remarked, attempting to be playful.

"Oh, so I can't even _drink_ right, now?" She felt her heckles rise as she put the drink down forcefully in anger. "Is that it? We have to stay bloody cloak and dagger forever because I'm just some gobshite who couldn't even drink cocktails with enough poise – of course—!"

He turned to her after that, looking shocked. "What? No, Molly, not at all—That's what you think?"

"Is it really so over the top to think?" she challenged. "I turn up 'ere to surprise you, after months of asking you if we can finally stop all this hiding, and finally get to at least bloody say 'ello to your best mate and you tell me it's not a good time because he's 'rowdy'?" She had shaken her head and to this day, she could remember how hard it had been in that moment not to cry. "If you're ashamed of me, just bloody say it."

When she had turned to look at him, she hadn't expected the shocked expression that had greeted her, where she had expected to see a combination of defensiveness and guilt. Immediately, his fingers subtly ghosted the curve of her wrist where she held the crystal glass on the bar, leaving burning trails in their wake. She looked down to watch the movement, the only physical connection between them and one that couldn't be seen from behind them.

"I am not ashamed of you, Molly," he murmured, the tone intimate in such a busy room. His brown eyes implored her to hear him, never wavering. "Yes, we're different people but that's what makes us work, if you ask me."

"Yeah – I get it. 'Kinship' crap again, right?" She rolled her eyes. "No offence Charles, but how can I believe that when you won't _show me?"_

Charles sat, looking deep in thought, for a long moment. His fingers were still ghosting her knuckles. "You are fucking awesome," he whispered, his gaze intense as he took in her profile. "And to top that off, you're beautiful, bloody _hilarious_ when you want to be and you saved my life, too, don't forget." She remembered just how much she wanted to believe him. "In all honestly, it's Elvis I'm ashamed of, most of the time. God knows what horrendous stories he'd tell you."

Molly frowned, somewhat sceptical. "You're embarrassed…by _Elvis_?"

"Frequently," he quipped with an easy smile. "Meet him and you will understand why, I promise you. I just was... I didn't want him to start spewing all his stories and frighten you off."

The look on his face was one of vulnerability – something so rare she had to double take to make sure she had seen it. Just as prompt though, he was looking away, clearing his throat. " _Really_ , Molly––," he whispered, but she was already talking.

"How can I _know_?" She was chewing her lip, remembering his stories of the sheer trouble Elvis could cause, but also all the times that Charles had managed to keep her from meeting him. "That's all this is, Charles. All men have ever done is let me down because they were embarrassed by the fact I'm just...well, who I _am_."

Leaning forward, he finally fully bridged the gap between them, fulling turning his body to hers. Reaching forward, he slipped his fingers between hers. She responded in kind, her knees knocking against his as she perched on the stool. "I _love_ who you are," he breathed, declaring it as easily as breathing in a tone that reminded him of a time long forgotten – ( _'I haven't fixed anything, I've broken it!" "No, you haven't!"_ ). She has always envied him his certainty. "It only takes letting _one_ person in to prove you wrong... Let me be that one person."

Meeting his eye, she simpered, despite her insecurity, his smile always infectious. Her heart leapt hearing him say such words; the kind of words she never used to think people said in real life.

"So, you're that one person, are ya'? My _good'un_?"

Charles hadn't known the significance of that term at the time, but the look he had given her was all she had needed to know he understood the sentiment. He looked as though he wanted to kiss her, but he's daren't.

"If you'll have me," he said, his voice uncharacteristically unsure.

Molly hadn't known happiness like it, hearing those soft words from him. She had nodded, not trusting herself not to be tearful, embarrassingly. "Well, if I don't look after ya', not sure who else will."

He smiled gently then and Molly remembered it being the kind of expression one might expect when you told someone you loved them – though she didn't know for sure at that point. She had not yet had the balls to say the words.

"Ditto," he whispered, ghosting her forearm with the tips of his fingers.

"You're not going to wipe your mouth on my hand again, are ya'?" She had been able to help but break the tension with a joke, bashful with the sudden weight of his gaze on her with so many people around.

It had made him laugh though; a skill she had already come to treasure.

"Only if you're _really_ lucky, Dawes." He looked at her with a gleam in his eye that made her stomach swirl in excitement. "Dance with me?"

Anyone who knew Molly past two glasses of wine knew how much she loved to dance. Between the age of six and eleven, she had gone to community dance sessions in Newham, mostly because it was free for people on benefits and that meant it was free childcare for Belinda. She had adored it, even though she learned little to know any technical skill. Still though, her love for dancing had remained and the moment she could get away with getting into clubs with a fake ID, she had done so.

Charles loved to dance too, it seemed, if his ridiculous strip tease for her to Elton John music on their weekend together after her first training deployment had been anything to go by.

So, just like that, the dynamic between them changed again, reverting back to their comfortable bubble that so easily appeared when they were alone.

"I'm the nuts at dancin', me," she agreed, leaning forward just slightly to squeeze the knee of his recently healed leg. "But will your leg hold out if you boogie on it, old man?" She only just managed to old in a squeal as he drove for her ribs at that comment, sliding from her stool excitedly. Secretly, she had no idea to dance to Latin music, but Charles took her hand to lead her toward the dance floor and suddenly she didn't care.

"I believe you, but thousands wouldn't, Dawes," he quipped softly, but his hold on her hand was as tender as the look in his eyes. "And I'll show you _old_!" He pulled her tight against him, so enthusiastically she almost fell, if he hadn't been holding her up. He held her so close that she could feel his chest move as he breathed and she placed her hand in his out to their left. His other arm snaked around her waist, before his hand then ventured lower and held her hips against his, which were already moving to the contagious beat of the music. The height difference between them made things a tad difficult at first, as Charles knew that ideally they should have been eye to eye in order to tango, but Molly's high heels and standing on her toes made it easier. She remembered, years on, how easy he made it feel, despite the fact she had never had Officer ballroom training as he had, and how taut and erotic it was to feel him move against her in a room full of people, never once taking his eyes off her.

"Is he looking?" he had asked, the words soft and low right against her ear. Momentarily, Molly wondered who 'he' was, until she looked subtly over Charles' shoulder and caught the expressions of the men on the table he had left behind. All three of them were squinting as though they couldn't quite believe what they were seeing. The laughter that bubbled up in her made her almost double over, her head back as she cackled, though the sound was lost thanks to their proximity to the music.

"Think their gobs might gonna catch flies," she giggled, leaning her forehead against his shoulder affectionately as she laughed.

He was laughing too, but mostly because she was and her laugh was infectious. When she met his eyes again, he closed the space between them again as he span her around to match the riff of the music. "Good," he murmured, his breath hot against the shell of her ear. She could remember how every nerve-ending in her sang as he grazed the shell of her ear with his teeth before drawing back enough to kiss her. While the firm kiss began as a performance, his hand soon found its way to cradling her jaw, as he always did, and brought her up into her toes.

" _Oi_ ," she had mumbled against his mouth. "Put me down, cave man. Ain't this meant to be a posh place?"

He had hold of her hips so she couldn't pull back, looking so smug that Molly had to roll her eyes.

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." For some reason, he looked very smug when he said that. Elvis had beckoned them over immediately – far too nosey to allow such moments events to happen without his involvement.

"Um, _okay_ , I'm sorry," Elvis began as Molly guided her over to their table, "but who are you and what the fuck _have_ you done with Charlie-warley-pudding-and-pie?"

Molly was suddenly shy, the joke barely rousing more than a smile.

"Do fuck off, Elvis," Charles replied good-naturedly, his hands on Molly's shoulders as she sat in his place on the chaise. "It's not my fault you wouldn't recognise romance if it bit you on the arse."

Molly smirked, barely managing to keep in a snort. The sound seemed to remind Elvis of her presence as he quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Are you _going_ to introduce your friend, Charles, or do I have to turn on my charm?"

"Fat chance, mate," Molly drawled without thinking, suddenly finding her voice again. Perching beside her, Charles gave her a minuscule wink.

"She does speak!"

"'ho you callin' ' _she_ '?"

"Molly Dawes, meet Elvis – Special Forces wanker extraordinaire," Charles introduced confidently, though Molly could his eyes were guarded. "Elvis, this is the Molly Dawes I believe I have previous mentioned once or twice. She's a _decorated_ CMT—."

"—who used to be your bloody medic," Elvis interrupted needlessly, making Molly's haze snap to Charles in surprise – secretly pleased to hear that Charles had mentioned her.

"—and now my girlfriend, smart arse."

The word triggered both Molly and Elvis to give him a double take. Elvis, to his credit, looked less shocked than Molly was sure she looked. She had never abided that word, not even with Artan. It had always felt so… _domestic…_

 _"I'm sorry –_ I think I just hallucinated," Elvis muttered quickly, placing his drink down dramatically. "Did you just say _girlfriend_?"

Charles looked at Elvis with a deadpan expression of exasperation. He looked to Molly for reassurance, but she was giving him the same look of surprise. "Sorry, I'm with him, mate," she said, shrugging playfully.

Charles rolled his eyes, trying his best to be offended, but the group just chuckled at his expense – Molly included.

"So, Charles never told me y'were an Essex wanker," she quipped conversationally, which practically made Elvis fall from his chair. "Y'got your teeth an' eyelashes done an' shit, ain't ya? Here then – how the hell did an Essex bloke end up at Sandhurst?!"

Elvis looked between his friend and the brunette beside him, putting on his best offended face. "Mate – did you hear what she just said to me? A _cockney_ just asked _me_ if my eyelashes are fake?!"

Charles was smug, giving her a grateful squeeze in secret from behind.

"I'm sorry, Elvis, I didn't hear anything. Was I supposed to?"

In the end, Jackie and Georgie had confessed months after that night that they had seen the two of them on the dance floor too, having come looking for her. They had been about to intervene when Georgie had realised just who the mystery man was, having known Charles a long time as Elvis' best friend. Jackie had been utterly hysterical with laughter. It was only then, once the two had stopped to rest at the bar, that Jackie had confronted her, tears of laughter still in her eyes.

" _Captain James_ is your mystery man?!" She had bounce over to them, smirking, without introduction. Molly had felt her face run hot as she couldn't help but laugh along. "You really are trouble, Molly Dawes! Bloody hell!"

Molly had laughed to cover her insecurity, but beside her, Charles had simply smirked, sliding his up to smooth the hair off the back of her neck in an affectionate, tender caress that didn't go unnoticed by her friend. "I wish I could disagree, Dawes," he'd agreed, sharing a look with Jackie.

The northern woman wasn't letting up, gasping in realisation. " _Please_ tell me this wasn't going on at that bloody FOB?!"

Charles rose his eyebrows and looked at Molly expectantly, letting her decide on what details she wished to divulge.

"No, Jack, it weren't," she had replied, wishing her cheeks weren't burning. "It was after the bugger almost died and realised how much he needed such a shit-hot medic in 'is life." There was a subtle squeeze of his hand at the nape of her neck, which she knew was a silent sign of his appreciation. Outwardly though, he rolled his eyes, feigning a reluctant resignation.

"A modest one, too, clearly," he quipped back sarcastically, making all of them grin. It was then that Georgie appeared from the crowd, looking equally gobsmacked.

"Charlie?! What are _you_ doing here?"

This time, Molly didn't even try to keep her cackling to a minimum. She had never heard anyone give Charles a nickname before and she had become beside herself with laughter. "Did she just...call you... _Charlie?"_ She struggled to breathe with the force of her amusement, her face pressed against his shoulder as she howled.

"No offence, Sir, but I never pegged you as a Charlie," Jackie smirked, ever obedient with her rank formalities.

Charles wasn't all too amused, having hoped to keep Elvis' nickname for him under wraps longer, considering he never approved of it in the first place.

"I'm here with our delightful mutual SF Officer," he had replied, giving Georgie a look that went from a warning to a hint of sympathy. "So, unless you want to have to deal with him, I suggest you scarper back to your table. I'll keep him occupied."

Georgie was immediately distracted, bordering on angry, momentarily quiet…before she remembered why she had come over.

" _Wait_ – so, you two are a _thing_? You and Moll?" Molly had one too many drinks to care that she was being referred to in third person, instead just enjoying Charles floundering with the new reality of his personal information no longer being entirely private. He never did do well when his two worlds collided. "How do you even _know_ each other—?"

"—He was her first bloody CO, that's how!" Jackie cried incredulously, clearly enjoying herself far too much at Molly's expense: a true friend.

"You little _minx_ , Moll!" Georgie gasped, throwing out her pointer finger at Charles. "And you! Captain James, _breaking the rules?_ Did someone call the papers?! _"_

 _"No rules were broken, thank you, Lane,"_ Charles reiterated sternly, though it only made the women's hysterics worse. He was fighting a losing battle and yet still couldn't quite bring himself to lay down his armour. "Now, if you don't mind," he muttered, pulling at Molly's hand. "I think Molly and I aren't quite finished with our dancing lesson, right, Dawes?"

"Please don't tell me you call her Dawes in the bedroom, Charlie," came Georgie's cat-call form behind them, hooting with laughter. _"That would be a new level of ridiculous, even for you!"_

Molly could have denied him, fought to stay with her friends on principle, but she found she didn't want to. Feeling rather smug and sorry for him, she let Charles lead her away from their attentions, relieved when it was just the two of them again, anonymous in the small crowd.

"So, _that's_ why you didn't want me to meet 'em!" Molly smirked as he pulled her in, trying to ignore the feeling of eyes on them from ten foot away. "You din' want me to know that some people get away with calling you _Charlie_."

He leaned down to nudge her nose with his, his stern gaze filled with an idle threat. "Don't _you_ dare start that."

"Why not, _Charlie_?" She poked her tongue out, enjoying elongating the name on her tongue. "'ow come glamour-puss, sugar-tits Lane is allowed to call you tha' and I ain't?"

Charles licked his lip, giving her a look of mock contempt. "Because she met me through that cock at Sandhurst known as Elvis, whose always called me that _because_ I hated it." He seemed to take a moment to digest what she called her. "Did you just call her _sugar tits?_ "

"Yeah, suits her, don't it? All them eyebrows and perfect cheekbones an' shit." She sniggered, inches from his face, squinting at him. "A cock at Sandhurst? Sure you ain't talking about _you,_ Charlie?" She was giggly, which would have, once upon a time, made her ashamed.

His grip on her hips was immediate as he pulled her against him, his dark eyes glittering with a delicious threat of punishment. He wasn't angry, but she liked it when he pretended to be; it reminded her of the stern Captain she used to fantasise about, back when he was nothing but her bold, stern Commanding Officer.

 _"Careful,"_ he murmured, somehow intimately despite their surroundings. She had remembered how it had raised goosebumps on her arms.

"Or _wha'_?" She knew she was on thin ice, watching him getting wound up, but she also knew by the twitch of his mouth that he, too, was enjoying it.

"You know fucking well what," he growled, his breath hot against her face.

She had squinted again, pulling back enough to desperate her body from his, teasing him. "I ain't sure I do, _Charlie_."

Just like that, he seemed to lose whatever it was that was holding him back. Almost immediately, he had her by the hand, forcefully puling her towards the exit.

"Wha––? Where are we going?"

He gave her a smirk over his shoulder, confidence and arrogance clear in the length of his stride. "Say goodbye to your friends, Dawes. I'd very much like to take you home." She went to open her mouth, to protest almost on principle despite the fact going home with him was all she had, secretly, wanted. He didn't even let her try as he stopped short, stealing a tantalising nip to her ear and whispering in her ear: _"Now. Please."_


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: ANOTHER chapter from me already? Anyone would think I was unemployed... *LOL*_

 _Again - reminder - some rated M content, just saying. ;). I just hope y'all approve...?_

 _LOVE HUGS,_

 _Stars Walk Backward_

 _P.S. Charles' poetry is my own... so please be kind!_

* * *

 _"Met you in a bar;  
_ _all eyes on me, your illusionist._

 _All eyes on us,  
_ _I make all your gray days clear_

 _And wear you like a necklace.  
_ _I'm so chill, but you make me jealous!  
_ _...But I got your heart  
_ _Skippin', skip-skippin' when I'm gone..._

 _And all the pieces fall  
_ _Right into place  
_ _Getting caught up in a moment  
_ _Lipstick on your face_

 _So it goes…_

 _I'm yours to keep  
_ _And I'm yours to lose...  
_ _You know I'm not a bad girl, but I  
_ _Do bad things with you_

 _So it goes…_

 _Come here, dressed in black now,  
_ _So it goes...  
_ _Scratches down your back now...  
_ _So it goes..._

 _You did a number on me..._ _But, honestly, baby, who's counting?"_

 **–– _"So it Goes..." – t.s_**

* * *

 **XXV**

* * *

 **Late 2014**

* * *

Looking back, she barely remembered the taxi ride home, just the feverish intensity with which he had looked at her, tickling her skin with his fingers even when she slapped his hand away because the taxi driver was _right there._ They made it to the Victory Services, in barely any time at all, which was somewhere that, until that day, Molly had never known existed. Stepping into the lift, she could recall she clearly the weight of the weeks they had been apart in the look that passed between them. Suffice to say, the moment the lift doors had shut, Charles had her against the wall, fire in his eyes and an urgency in his hands.

 _"There's CCTV,"_ she had gasped beneath his punishing kiss, revelling in the near-painful sensation of the cool mirrored wall as his hips pinned her to it.

 _"I don't bloody care,"_ came his response, practically a grunt as he lips remained just as insistent, dropping his face into the curve of her neck to nip at the expanse of skin exposed.

Less than two minutes later, they were down the corridor and he was fumbling for his keycard in his wallet. Molly had teased him, peeping down the empty corridors before slipping her hands over him, grabbing greedily at his jean clad behind. He made a minuscule sound of approval before all but falling through the door in haste to pull her with him. The moment he had shut it behind her, he had her against it, breathing a sigh of relief that would not have sounded out of place coming from a well and truly starving man… or Dave after attempting two days of Dry January.

"Thank _fuck_ ," he groaned, allowing his hands to roam with the reckless abandon over the back of her leather-clad thighs, up and over the curve of her bottom where he took handfuls, pulling her right up against him as he captured her mouth again, unforgiving. She could still remember how her heartbeat roared in her ears as the chemistry between them crackled, the only sound their rasped breathing in the carpeted, well furnished room. "I bloody missed you," he breathed, pulling back just enough to sink his lips into the curve of her neck again, pushing his teeth into the sensitive skin enough to leave a mark. "Night after night, I had to sit there and listen to that lot of cockwombles talking about you and wondering how you are through the fucking tent canvas until all I could do was think about you," he flexed his hips hard against her to emphasise his point, "about _this,_ aching for you." She heaved out a moan at his confession, breathless and a little dazzled, the scratch of his stubble rubbed deliciously against her throat, followed closely by the nipping of his teeth. "It's like I'm fifteen all over again."

She had tried desperately to get her bearings, everything moving much faster than she was used to. Until that point, almost the entirety of her sexual encounters with Charles had been so tender that everything moved at a rather slow pace, in comparison to her previous 'quickie-behind-the-Indian-takeaway', 'blink-and-you'll-miss-it' experiences. She had teased him about it at first, but secretly she had always adored how gentle and caring he was with her, only ever losing his bearings completely as he raced towards his finish.

Perhaps that was why the particular evening that their relationship stopped being a secret stood out so in her memory; it was the first time Charles had shown the part of him that, no doubt silently, screamed at him to be feral, to throw caution into the wind and just _be._ The same part of him that she had caught only a glimpse of in Afghanistan, the day they mistook thunder for the end and everything changed. To a man like him, a man who lived and breathed rank and regulation and status, losing control, she learned, was the ultimate act of vulnerability, so she treasured that he allowed her to witness it.

She relinquished herself over to him as they moved from against the door to against one wall, then another, letting him kiss her until her lips burned and tingled with the scratch of his stubble and her breath came like she had run an entire 10k, but by that time her hands were in his hair and gripping his shirt for dear life.

"Fuckin' _hell_ , Bossman," she had muttered, dazed as he finally allowed her away from the wall, pulling her into the centre of the room to stand at the foot of the bed.

"I've told you not to call me that during sex, Molly," he scolded without malice. "Last thing I need is to start getting aroused by Two Section!"

She giggled, personally thinking that sounded like an excellent predicament. She went to answer back, but by now he knew her well enough to know it was coming. Suddenly he was on his knees, hands smoothing over the trousers as he admired her in them, her face turning hot.

"It's rude to stare, ain't it?"

She was never sure why she said it, not at the time or thinking back, but he had simply grinned at her wickedly, his eyes silently challenging her to do anything about it. He had practically torn open the fly before tugged the material over her thighs, pressing his lips to her naval in a tantalising trail that followed where the trousers had just been, lower and _lower…_

Thinking back on it now, years later, she still got hot all over, her knees still twitching with the memory of how quickly they trembled as he merely breathed against her through her comfy cotton underwear. She had felt self conscious with him on his knees, practically with a face full of her lady parts, even after six months, and tried her best to pull him up, but the more she pulled the harder he pushed, until finally her underwear had been pushed to the side altogether and she couldn't stay standing without clinging to the back of his head.

"I'm in my comfy granny pants," she had tried to wheeze, bashfully trying to hide them from him as she lay on the bed, shaking with exertion. "I had no idea I'd be seeing you until you sent that text an' I was already bloody dressed."

"Oh, stop it," he had shushed hotly, stripping himself of his clothes as she recovered – or attempted to. "The first six months I knew you, you were in greens for God's sake. Like I give a shit about your knickers."

" _Knickers_?" She had never heard a grown man use that word so seriously. "Did you just bloody say _knickers_?"

The conversation had dropped immediately when she realised he was naked; the dim, somewhat substandard hotel lighting doing nothing to diminish how devastatingly handsome he was. Lying in the middle of the bed, she had let him crawl back over to her, his eyes the molten chocolate, whiskey colour that, by then, had long followed her even into her dreams.

As the chemistry became like tangible static between them again, they both lose their breath, lips long swollen and hands as restless and greedy as the very first day. All too soon, she was desperately needy for him and, for once, he didn't play games with her.

"Please, Charles," she muttered impatiently, kneeling opposite him in the mattress as he had her nipple in his mouth. She had reached between them to tease him, thrilled by the way his breath hissed through his teeth. "Please. _Now."_ He caught her gaze as he captured her lower lip between his. Without another word, he had pushed her onto her front on the mattress, her hips ending up practically in the air with the sudden shock of it. She gasped out a laugh of surprise, grinning against the slightly rough hotel bed cover. He knew by six months in that she preferred sex from behind, as crude as it was to admit, but most often she would willingly forgo the position that was most easy for her to get off on, instead in favour of those Charles preferred that allowed for eye contact – romantic bloody bugger. (Perhaps, if one was analytical and bookish about it, one might say that it was all an indication of her detached childhood, her rather tenuous relationship with her father, and therefore her distrust and emotional disconnect from alpha males... Molly herself didn't allow herself to put much thought to it).

As it was, all she really knew was that it felt _so good._

She made an inhuman noise as he pushed into her, harmonising with Charles as he groaned out simultaneously with her keening sigh, swearing over and over. She felt such an intense sensation, something resembling relief. She hadn't been able to see him, but she had felt him everywhere. Even having only known her, the her _not_ on tour that is, for six months, Charles already knew how to work her body better than she did, hence how he knew just which position would drive her out of her mind. That particular evening though, he seemed to be striving, reaching, with something even more guttural than anything that had come before; the sound of his hips slamming against her behind as she attempted to stay upright on all fours, coupled with the strained, whispered groans he made: all of it felt a catalyst for new, unchartered waters.

The pleasure that spiked through her rendered her practically blind eventually, as his stamina was much better than hers since she had had much more than his one glass of wine in alcohol consumption. She remembered feeling as though her entire body was ringing with it, pulsing, singing for relief but also begging for it to never come. Her face felt numb with the friction from the bed cover, she remembered, as he had suddenly slowed. She had practically cried out like a forlorn child with the loss of the seemingly endless sensation, only for Charles' strong hands to lift her arms, limp with exertion, and ease her back against his chest until she was sitting in his lap. He never once let himself slip from her warmth.

"Oh, _Molly_ , _fuck,_ " he whispered. Somehow, he always made her name feel almost biblical. There was a sheen of sweat on them both, the kind that told of a steady, ever-building intensity. She felt his lips against her head, having been sucking at her neck, pressing kisses above her ear and towards her temple, so she moved her head to look at him over her shoulder as her hips rolled, instinctively and sloppily in his lap, to meet his with urgency. Eye to eye, he held her to him so tightly and Molly could remember, even now, the expression he wore, both one that told her he was with her, nowhere but in that one moment. His hips had jerked forward suddenly, aggressively, and the pressure building in her almost burst.

" _Charlie_ ," she whispered in warning, without thought, feeling a slither of apprehension for the tsunami that was coming. It was a strangled breath of a moan, her body physically shaking, as she struggled to keep herself balanced on the metaphorical knife edge she could feel she was walking.

Beneath her, Charles didn't stall at her slip up, but suddenly his hand was, gently, at her throat, holding her back to his chest as he pushed into her as deep as he could. Had she been conscious or aware of herself, she would have been embarrassed and amused by her use of Elvis' nickname for him, but as it was, it slipped from her without thought and with an ease she hadn't anticipated. His long, slender fingers, capable of wielding deadly weapons and straining in fury, cupped her throat tenderly, the expanse from his pointer finger to the end of his outstretched thumb considerably impressive all the way from beneath one point of the underside of her jawbone to the other. She threw her head backward against his shoulder, his firm hold over her voicebox, forcing her to arch her spine for more delicious friction.

She knew even at that time that she shouldn't, long before being raped and having to face the reality of sex as an act of possessiveness head on, but she had thrived on the idea that he held her in a position where she was at her most vulnerable, _before._ Until recent events, she had been the kind of woman, the kind of lover, who was secretly delighted when Charles let himself become carnal and possessive. Perhaps it was down to a complete lack of understanding or appreciation for anything subtle, but she had felt she needed it as it showed her, under no uncertain terms, _just_ how much he wanted her.

On this first occasion, she could still remember the way her windpipe had been under his hold, squeezing fractionally just to give the illusion of danger for the sake of thrilling her and, most likely, boosting his own bravado. That being said, what was key was that, despite his strength, she hadn't been afraid to let him do so. It had turned her on, she realised now, all those times, to give him the power – partly because it was all an illusion, a game in which she could hand over all responsibility for a while. In reality, _of course_ they were equals, of course he would never once physically harm her, but being able to watch him give in to the side of himself she never normally got to see, the side of him that drove him to live out of bergen for all those years and fire live rounds without a second thought, was something she had always treasured.

Giving her entire body and mind over to him had been all too easy. Deep down, she was ashamed to admit now, all she had ever wanted was someone to look after her, take all responsibility she had grown up carrying around, the feeling that was she always going to be a burden, away from her.

His rasping breath was against her cheek as he watched her from the side of his vision. It had taken her a long moment to process he was whispering to her. "Say it again," he'd said, the request practically a plea as he groaned through an acute spike in pleasure. She forced her eyes open and blinked up at the white ceiling, trying her best through her heaving for breath to make sense of what he was asking. It was only as she inched her head slightly around towards his that she put two and two together, a lazy smile stretching across her face.

"Wha'? ' _Charlie'_?" She did her best and most seductive post supermarket advert voice and he immediately rewarded her with the surge of his hips, sudden and powerful, so hard against her that he hit the the spot that made her vision dance with dark stars. She chuckled darkly in gratitude and clenched around him.

" _Christ alive!_ " he laughed breathlessly, losing the alpha male in his persona momentarily as he littered the side of her face with kisses, still holding her still with his strong hand at her throat. "Just when I think there is nothing else you do to me fall more in love with you… You've even made heaven out of that bloody nickname."

The loving words had washed over her like a hot flush, rising a blush of pride and bashfulness on her her already rosy skin. She gave up trying to keep hold of any sense of coherent thought, mumbling a string of curses as he sped up again, raising from sitting back on his haunches just enough to move himself into her with increasing speed and abandon.

That very thought was enough and, just like that, she began falling apart. His hips were, at that point, so insistent that it was almost brutal.

"I've told you," she wheezed, trying to keep herself together enough to form a reply. "I…don't…do…perfect–– _fuck._ It's too much—," she panicked a little, the sheer force of the incoming pleasure daunting in its intensity. He pressed her down into the bed, rutting against her so desperately he almost lost any sense of rhythm. His movements until that point, to an outsider, would have most likely looked insensitive and detached, but she could feel the weight of his eyes on her the entire time, attentive as ever in his observations.

"Yes, you do," he whispered assuringly into her hair. His hand reached for hers where it gripped the bedsheets in a painful, cramped white knuckle grip and slipped his fingers through hers, anchoring them together. It was a subtle reminder of the Charles she had come to know by then; the gentle, kind caregiver with conversational whisky eyes who was like something from an Austen novel – he was always there. "God, seeing you out tonight and actually being able to hold you – it was _everything._ "

"Ditto – oh _bleeding' Nora – ditto!_ _Charlie..._ " she whimpered, barely aware of her own voice as she was overwhelmed by an intense surge of suffocating affection for him and a need to see his face.

"I'm here," he whispered, kissing her anywhere he could reach. His hands were back to being tender from then on, in direct juxtaposition to his punishing rhythm, reaching around her to press against the bundle of nerves between her thighs while other squeezed her fingers and caressed her knuckles. "Come on," he urged, catching her lip. "Come for me," he whispered sinfully, the memory of which was long imprinted indelibly on her soul.

The pleasure immediately bubbled to the surface under his manipulations, so hot it felt almost like her nerves were burning, forcing her eyes to close as tears streamed from the corners and she stopped breathing all together. When her body did relax momentarily just enough for her to gasp for oxygen, before spasming again, she wailed his name into the sheets as he pinned her under his weight, her orgasm seeming to trigger his frenzied movements that brought his own end. She could still remember how her body ached, arching and straining despite the weight of him – the pleasure of feeling him losing control inside had sent her in a spiral that went on and on and _on_.

He didn't move his weight entirely from her for a long time as they they both lay, simply trying to catch their breath. She turned her face enough to watch him as he settled beside her, his eyelids drooping as he suddenly laughed to himself.

"What?" She had giggled back, the exchange triggering a distant memory of the two of them sharing her Coco Pops.

"Elvis isn't going to believe that I've let someone new call me Charlie."

There was something about the timber of his voice after sex, all low and intimate like he was most private of confessions, that always made her feel so incredibly lucky. It was one of the things, looking back now she was so afraid, she missed the most.

He had slipped from her body so that he could move to see her fully, taking her face into his hands and becoming a complete soft bugger again and she hadn't been able to help but make a soft sound of disquiet, sorry to feel to be reminded of how physically void she felt when he was no longer inside her.

"He'll be askin' you what I did to win ya' round," she smirked, smoothing a confident hand over his soft chest hair and up into the curls at the base of his skull. Charles had grinned wickedly as he looked over her body, appreciating her naked body despite how sweaty and unkempt she was, with eyes that were kind and warm and made her squirm. "All me' cockney charm and magnetism."

"Oh, of course, Dawes," he agreed in his best showman voice, but she could see by the smirk he wore he was thinking thoughts too filthy for a gentleman.

"Though – I _s'pose_ – the odd blowjob don't exactly go amiss either, innit?"

The laughter exploded from him, she remembered, and he fell completely against her with the force of it and shook his head at her as he attempted to look disapproving at her brash humour. Molly remembered grinning like a child with the glee of making him laugh like that.

* * *

 **Present – December 2016**

* * *

Years later and with so many new demons between them, nights like that one felt so far away, despite the fact her love for Charles had only grown.

She was still reliving the memories and looking into nothing when Charles finally came to bed. She heard Elvis hug him goodbye before he climbed the stairs with his usual slightly favouring of one leg over the other. She lay in bed, lights off, and just listened to him as he attempted to move around the room as quietly as possible, thinking her to be asleep. He moved into their bathroom to brush his teeth and she smiled to herself, knowing he would rediscover the post-it note she had left him on the mirror the morning before last to remind him to shave – (despite the fact he was a grown man and didn't really need reminding). He chuckled to himself as he turned off the light, now a grainy shadow in her vision. She was somewhat disappointed that he chose to strip off his clothes in complete in complete darkness, considering the carnal evening she had been unable to stop reminiscing about for the last hour. As much as she might now have a fear of physical intimacy, it didn't mean she couldn't appreciate what a mighty fine specimen he was.

As he slipped into bed, his toes icy, she gave up feigning sleep and turned round to meet him, her arms already open. She was wearing layers of pyjamas, the cold December air having chilled her to the bone after her drink or two with Brains.

She had missed the Scouse tosser a great deal and had struggled not to lose grip on her decorum at the very sight of his lopsided smile and wide open arms. One drink in and she had lost it in the end, after Brains asked the question she knew he would. He was far too astute for his own good, she thought, but it was, of course, what earned him his nickname.

"Jackie wouldn't tell me what happened but I could tell by the look she gave." Molly smirked, staring into her drink, having suspected long enough of a rather unlikely friendship having brewed between her matron-of-honour and her old friend. "I'm worried, Molls. Round barracks, they're sayin'––."

"They're sayin' _wha'?"_ Molly interrupted hotly, irked by the idea that the regiment was gossiping about her despite the fact she knew they would.

"Tha' your CO being investigated and you being on compassionate leave isn't a coincidence." He was pushy, Brains, he always had been, but this was the first time it had irked her enough for her to have to actually bite her tongue. "But it is, right?"

He could hear the familiar timbre of denial in his voice, the soft hopefulness that she now realised was common in people when they didn't want to believe that the worst could, and did, happen. She tried to make a joke, but her voice was strangled and quiet, so she took a gulp of her drink. "I wish," she whispered.

"What – it _isn't_?" Brains waited patiently, watching her closely, until she gave in.

"He jumped me," she practically whispered, her eyes blurred with emotion. Immediately, ever the tactile friend, Brains had a soft hand on her shoulder.

" _What?_ " he gasped, sounding wounded himself. When she dared to glance at him, he had gulped down the remainder of his one drink, looking shellshocked.

"Yeah," she whispered. Her eyes burned, sore from previous crying.

He lay back against the booth and stilled for a long moment, his round eyes round and alert. " _How_ could––? Why _would_ anyone––?" She was shaking her head rather violently, cutting him off, because honestly, she had not the faintest idea. "I wish y'told me, Moll. I'm a trained sniper – I could take 'em down easy."

The words were said with mirth, but not quite to the level that either of them were willing to admit.

"Join the queue, mate," Molly snorted, though the humour disintegrated soon after as she considered the reality of her statement. "I've never seen Charles like he was when I told him."

Brains' eyebrows rose right up his hairline. "Oh, _shit –_ I bet The Boss lost it."

Molly's forced smile wobbled, not wanting to say too much, because he was still his superior, after all. "You can't tell the lads," she whispered, suddenly aware of the fact she had said that more than once now. "Please, Brains, I can't face––."

"––No worries, Moll!" He had his hand around her suddenly, pulling her to him the way Smurf once had when she had cried. "Those loud-mouth buggers are the last thing you need." He suddenly had her in a tight hug; the first true contact with a male that wasn't Charles she had had since what happened. She was relieved, so _very_ relieved, to find that it didn't fill her with panic the way she expected.

Now, as she lay in bed, she felt such gratitude for her friend, because before he had arrived to pick her up, she had been stood completely numb and shellshocked in the bathroom, trying her best not to wilt and sink to the floor with the despair that so many men, all of whom were supposedly men of duty and uniform, could do such horrific things to so many women.

Despite all that though, the most painful juxtaposition could be felt between her thighs, as her most private of anatomy throbbed against her will, awoken by the reverent memories of a time when she had been so entire carefree, so free to trust... and so entirely naive that nothing would ever change.

"Sorry – didn't mean to wake you," Charles whispered, oblivious to her turmoil of course as he shivered and sighed in satisfaction as he slipped into the cocoon of warmth she had created beneath the duvet, burying his face into her neck. His lips puckered in a gentle, needless kiss automatically wherever they fell.

"You're alright," she dismissed softly, smoothing a hand over his curls. She knew by how soft they were that he had showered while she was out, the conditioner always made them slip through her fingers like tight coils of silk thread. "Was just lying here awake, anyway." His fingers moved in the dark, restless, stroking where the baby hair lined the back of her neck, evidently trying to soothe her.

"Want to talk about it?" The question was quiet and tentative, unlike the Charles of old from her memory.

"Was just thinking about Mahiki's," she confessed, melancholy.

"Hm," he hummed knowingly.

"Y'told me that night it was the best shag of y'life," she probed, self-conscious and, secretly wishing for the simplicity of that time. She only narrowly managed to keep herself from adding: _Would you say the same, even now?_

"It was..." he agreed gently, "until the next time." That at least made her smile. "And then our wedding night bloody trumped it all."

She sighed, suddenly feeling bereft by the loss of such a magically time. She had no idea how such happiness could possibly have been real, but less how life could ever get back there again. The panic of such a realisation and she felt the waste of it like a hot flush and drummed through her. " _Yes_ ," she choked out – a mere wheeze. "God, it was..." She felt him squeeze his fingers at her neck, evidently trying his best to be reassuring as her tone was anything but nostalgic.

"How did it go tonight?" His tone was careful, controlled, like a child confront their parent, not wanting to rock the boat.

The very thought of repeating what she had heard stoked her panic all the more. "I ain't sure I can repeat half of what I heard—."

He shushed her, pacifying her panicked, hurried speech. "—It's okay, Sweetheart, really. You don't have—," he began.

"—No, it ain't, though!" she sighed, angrily, hating how her voice was tight with unspent emotion. When she spoke again, her voice was small and fractured. "How can _any_ of this ever be okay? How can I ever get back to how we were when I know there's so many men who––?" She fidgeted, falling silent from her urgent whispering as she sat up to rub her hands over her itchy eyes, taking a long moment to try and order her thoughts. "There were so many of them, Charles," she whispered, staring into nothing. "I mean, shit, one of the Doris' said her Squadron Leader did it to her during _Basic."_ She burrowed her face into her hands, trying not to visualise it but failing miserably. "There were so many of them," she sighed. "How can _so_ many men do this?"

He sighed heavily from behind her, reaching his hand up to smooth over her back. "I wish I knew." A second later, she felt the pressure of his lips against her spine through her cotton top, lifting her lips into the smallest of smiles. "Did it help at all, at least?"

Thinking of Nutty and how inspiring she had been, openly and unashamedly declaring what happened to her, she felt herself smile in the dark, despite how filled with anxiety she was. "Well, it weren't all a hundred per cent shit, I s'pose."

"Practically a compliment coming from you, then," he joked, his fingers toying with the hem of her shirt. She exhaled out a soft bark of a laugh, because he wasn't wrong.

"Some of them women, Charles," she whispered, chewing her lip. "They ain't even scared." She heard him move to sit up before he pressed his cheek to her shoulder blade, listening quietly with his usual intensity. "Watchin' them, I just thought... I've forgotten what it's like _not_ to be scared." She willed herself not to cry, too exhausted to face it all again and knowing how much her tears upset him. "Scared of men who make eye contact with me on the street, of the shadows of shadows, of what the regiment will say—."

"—It doesn't matter what they say," he shut down, resolute. She wasn't sure in that moment whether or not he was being certain for her or for himself.

"—But mostly, I'm scared of what happens if they don't believe me."

She was tense, her arms tight around her legs as she curled them to her chest, ignoring the fact her body was already becoming chilled from the lack of the duvet. She felt ten times heavier, having made that confession. Charles didn't move, staying perfectly still beside her as though he was scrambling for the ability to articulate something to say – or perhaps, just perhaps, he was secretly worried about it, too.

"You know, someone said tonight," she murmured, almost to herself as she picked at a scab on her hand in the dark, "only seven per cent of cases end in convictions." She could feel herself trembling but still being herself to move. Lying down felt too casual, too relaxed, for the fury and gnawing anxiety she was feeling, like an ache that made you want to writhe around in an attempt to try and ease it. "Fucking _seven."_ She pushed her fingers into her hair, pulling at it and relishing in the slight pain in the scalp. "How can that be right—? How can I ever be lucky enough to be in that seven per cent—? If they let him off—!" The panic in her rose in her throat and propelled her into an even more insular position, pressing her face against her knees. Charles took leave from the sudden withdrawn body language, pushing his arms around her body until his hands crossed over her chest, pinning her arms into her sides. His face pushed into the gap between her neck and her shoulder as he lovingly hummed against the skin in a low volume. The medic in her knew what he was doing, holding her physically together in a manner that was panic-attack treatment 101, keeping her from digging her own hands into her skin or flapping her arms, but it didn't stop her from automatically trying to fight it.

He hummed a familiar tune into her ear as he began rocking them from side to side, a silky, whispered melody from a time forgot about that same poor Doris called 'Miss Molly', exhaling hushing sounds into her hair. Her eyes burned with a new wave of emotion, this time less triggered by her pain and more by her complete overwhelming gratitude for having him in her life. Her laughter bubbled up, painfully dredged from beneath ten foot of heavy, dark bullshit, and escaped despite the pain that weighed her down.

"The _bloody_ song," she chuckled breathlessly, pretending to hate it as she always did. "Who the fuck says 'good golly' an' all?" she sniffed, attempting to make a joke to distract from the dread that boiled in her gut.

"My mother, on the odd occasion, funnily enough," he hummed quizzically, rolling his eyes at the very memory of it. Molly couldn't see his expression, but she smiled at the reminder of Alison James and all her upper-middle-class 'isms'.

The quiet descended again as she didn't pick up on his attempts at humour this time, the tension in her body palpable. His breath left his lungs in one heavy exhale as he steeled himself to face the previous topic – the one that hurt him the most. "I wish I could give you all the answers you need... that you _deserve_ ," he whispered, sounding pained to her ears as the words were breathy from high in this throat. "I would do _anything_...if I could just take this away from you." She could feel her heart racing in her chest, practically tripping over itself. "You're _are_ my good'un, as your Nan says _– and_ you know that" he whispered, the declaration like an imprint on her skin, carrying on despite how physically frozen she was. "The chances of meeting you, of us falling for one another in a war zone? Lady Luck smiled on us more than once. As far as I'm concerned, you're my one in a million – never mind the _seven bloody per cent_." He kissed the vertebrae top of her spine, slow and delicate, that peeped out from the top of her pyjamas.

"I think we've maxed out our Lady Luck allowance in the last few years, mate," she muttered dejectedly, unable to be keep but seeing the glass as half empty in her current mood.

"Maybe so," he whispered, never one to sugar coat; the army taught the value off honesty, no matter how blunt. "But either way, luck or no luck – in sickness and in health – I'm here. I'll _always_ be here, no matter what right hooks come for us."

"'Always' is a big word," she murmured immaturely, her insecurity clear and getting the better of her. Charles, determined to ignore the niggle of irritation in his chest that pushed him to be defensive, wrinkled his nose in the darkness. This wasn't about him, after all.

"So is 'marriage', Molly," he pointed out carefully, potently forcing her to reevaluate, because suddenly she lost any thread of where her sardonic thoughts had been headed. She was quiet, still, reeling from sudden halt of her thoughts. Inside her head, she repeated words, _any_ words she could string together, to calm the relenting swell of panic from spewing up her throat. Dr Kahn had reminded her of the anagram used to teach people how to cope and of course bleated on that she use it, (as though she were a plonker from soviet street who was one condom short of an orgy, which she most certainly _weren't_ ).

In reality, she knew it almost verbatim. A.W.A.R.E: Acknowledge Accept, Wait Watch, Action, Repeat and End. It was something she knew from her copious amounts of training surrounding PTSD – lord knew she had lectured enough bloody squaddies on it – but it didn't seem to help her one jot now. They were just words. It felt impossible for her herself to implement them somehow, a fact which, she was well aware, was laden with a cruel irony

 _"'And 'love' is greater still...'"_

She must have been stiff and quiet for a long time, because he suddenly spoke, his voice was soft, poetic, wistful; almost as though he hasn't been speaking to her at all. He did that sometimes: fell into the cadence and words of poems he long had memorised, in the same manner in which most people, Molly included, found themselves talking to themselves. The line wasn't one she recognised and somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if it was a line from the elusive poetry he wrote in a leather notebook he took with him on every tour but pretended didn't exist. (She would often catch him writing in the middle of the night, sometimes).

She wanted so _much_ in that moment: to understand, to be able to articulate and not internalise all the rotten crap she could feel inside her, to find any words at all. As it was, all she managed was the smallest of indications that she had heard him. Forever inadequate. "Hm? Is that some of the poetry that you ' _don't'_ write?" She finally turned into his hold, shivering as she burrowed her face into his t-shirt-clad chest, grateful for the chance to change the topic of conversation. His hold was unrelenting as he coaxed her back into the warm.

"Ah, now, that would be telling, wife-of-mine," he dismissed, lightheartedly, pulling the duvet over them both hastily. She made a noise of disbelief but didn't raise her face from her hiding place. Secretly, she was more than intrigued about what it was he wrote about, but he respected his privacy and need for an outlet too much to even consider reading it, not just because the was his wife, but also as a fellow soldier. War could make monsters of men if they weren't careful, after all. Still though, she did find herself being itched by the slight slighter of insecurity. Yes, Charles _was_ a private man, of course he was, she knew that from knowing him one day, but the fact that he continued to exclude her as to the _content_ on his writing, on parr with everyone else, worried her. So, being the same old Molly Dawes at heart, she pushed, putting on her best, most persuasive whisper.

"How's the rest go?" she tried, cheekily, rushing her words. "It's not like I'm gonna know if it's shit," she ribbed hopefully, biting her lip in the dark. She pressed her lips against his heart, shy and hesitant. Suddenly, she was urgent for this small barrier between them to be gone before anxiety ballooned it out of proportion. He pulled in a long, powerful inhale, his entire body moving against hers, as she could practically hear his mind whirring.

Surprisingly though, he whispered out a laugh, settling down with his head on hers before letting his most private citations flow.

"' _Your mind has built up walls no one can conquer;  
_ _here we don't leave our fortress for days..."_

Gradually, her eye-lids began to droop as he murmured such soft, sleep-ridden words, soothed by the rhythm of his words and of his hands as they curled entirely around her, moving up and down her back in the way she so often did to him. She found herself wishing that she too could talk in riddles like he did, because at least, in his chaos, Charles made something beautiful.

 _"'In reality, the bricks are just made of paper,  
_ _saturated by every wave that breaks...  
_ _We meet on the sands between sleeping and awake...  
_ _and yet, love is greater  
_ _still.'"_


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: I've been working on this one for what feels like forever, trying to get it as accurate to what panic feels like as possible, and to be honest, I'm still not sure... But I think it's as close as I'm going to get it. I started writing this the day after I got felt up in a bar by a stranger and it got me thinking, not only how common it is, but how frighteningly easily we as women are conditioned to shrug it off... When, really, there's nothing little about being grabbed against your will, ever._

* * *

 _"Standing broad-shouldered next to her_

 _was a love that was really something,  
_

 _...not just the idea of something._

 _When she turned to go home,_  
 _She heard the echoes of new words:_

 _"May your heart remain breakable_  
 _But never by the same hand twice"._

 **–– _"Why She Disappeared" – t.s_**

* * *

 **XXVI**

* * *

No one tells you what panic is really like, when it sets in like damp in dead wood and moves with you as you go about your life, a silent threat. At first, you barely notice it; just the odd overzealous flurry of your heart in a mildly stressful situation at the supermarket, a slightly more irate argument than usual with your mother, the slight jarring of your ability to see reality when you're alone and the worry that you feel at the thought of a night alone with your thoughts.

Then one day, like rot in an great, ancient oak, it has silently spread to more of your mind than you were aware of… and when anxiety strikes the next time, the part of you that once saw things rationally has become well and truly outnumbered. You walk around with a tightness in your chest and an inability to settle; your favourite spot on the sofa or your favourite pyjamas no longer offering the comfort and pacification of your worries that they once had. You feel both numb and stiff with denial, all at once… until the last straw falls and then, so do you.

Molly had barely noticed the cold, despite the fact she was racing home in bare feet in the height of winter, carrying her ridiculous heeled boots in her hand. Nor had she noticed how her lungs burned with the bite of the air. She just kept moving, feeling nothing but the pressure of the concrete pavement beneath her feet, each step a strange comfort as it brought her closer and closer to home. She hadn't been sure where she was running to when she had fled the pub; all she had known suddenly there was a man, a stranger who took hold of her from behind as she had squashed passed him to get back inside, and then suddenly there was blood on her hands: _his_ blood. That had been what she was running _from._

She knew the moment her fist had connected with his nose that it has been a mistake. He had not meant to touch her there in that way – the look on his face and the sheer shock in his voice told her that. Men who enjoyed taking without consent were very rarely ashamed of it in such a setting, Molly had learned.

Why _would_ they be ashamed? After all, they were taught they were taking simply what women owed them.

This stranger was young, not burly or heavily set like Captain Lawrence, whose face she momentarily thought she saw; he was but a teenager who was too drunk to even stand. The strangest part of it all was, deep down, she realised this almost immediately, and yet fear did strange things and panic, even more so. One misplaced hand and one too many a beer and she had turned into the Molly Dawes of old, who fought her way out of any situation with swinging fists without a second thought.

The very sight of the blood made her nauseous, the dark, noisy pub making her feel like a marble in a tin can. She suddenly lost all her words, staring down at her knuckles as they themselves were ringing in pain, painted with his blood, suddenly gasping for air that wouldn't come.

She may have been an aggressive teenager, but she had never actually punched someone before – having only ever slapped the odd tosser or two. Her teenage angst had mostly been all about bluster. But now, as she stared down at her hands, trying to form the words to apologise, to tell him just _what_ it was that had happened to her the last time a man had touched her from behind, to say _anything,_ she simply felt the inevitable sickness of realisation take over her and render her dumb with dread: this is what He had brought her to.

And like Molly Dawes of old, she _ran_.

She forgot all about Jackie, whom had been inside with Molly's new acquaintance from the counselling group, getting them another drink. The bravado she had built up over the previous day, having ardently decided that she would absolutely _not_ let this thing beat her after yet another sleepless night, a seemingly useless meeting with her solicitor and a seemingly hopeless therapy session with Doctor Kahn, had disappeared altogether. Suddenly, she felt the familiar rotting feeling in her gut, from denial and repression finally crumbling, giving way to the bare and tender wound that was in fact beneath.

No matter how many paces she took, how many miles she put between herself and the pub she had left behind her, the suffocating nausea, the itch and prickle across her scalp, only worsened. As she stumbled across the threshold of she and Charles' front door, unseeing, she was met with the raucous sound of Charles and his old Sandhurst friends in the kitchen down the hall. Again, she felt as though her mind was a marble inside a tin can, being shaken while the entire world around her remained terrifyingly resolute and calm. She shut the door behind her and it was all she could door to lean against it, the sound of their jovial, boyish banter somehow making it all worse. She felt like she was under water, struggling to breath but also struggling to reach or anchor herself to any of her senses; a spectator in her life.

She had no idea how long she sat against the front door, having slid down it and all but collapsed on the spot, simply trying to catch any breath at all, to stop her tears. They streamed from her eyes in that horrible, quiet way heavy tears do when panic sets in, continuous and seemingly with a lifecycle all of their own, as though they were attempting to give life to all inside your soul that was dying. She made no move to stop them as her head began to spin, even her body beginning to disconnect from the world enough to give her pins and needles in her limbs, her lips. She tried to listen to the distant sound of Charles and his friends behind the door but ten foot away, but she couldn't make out anything distinct over the roaring of her racing heart in her ears. All she wanted was to call out, all she wanted was Charles, but she was choked by the fear and shame of being found this way, but even more immaturely, that Charles would say 'I told you so'.

They had had a pretty heavy domestic when she had announced, defiantly and without warning, that she would be going to see Jackie for a drink after the meeting with the solicitor. He had been aghast and not tried to hide it from her, since it had only been days after she had had a breakdown in the gym. The fact she was suddenly fiercely determined to go out into an environment that would, in his opinion, only trigger her further, seemed no doubt preposterous, careful and meticulous, _rational_ bugger that he was. She had resented him telling her what to do of course, helplessness giving way to her pride and bravado as she had gone out anyway, trying to ignore the niggling feeling in her mind that she was making a mistake the moment she stepped out of the front door.

Now, as she stared at the kitchen door, she found herself willing it to open and for him to find her, moving her lips in a silent attempt to speak. Instead though, all that came out was yet more violent exhaling, as she panted through the adrenaline that raced through her as she still couldn't catch her breath. She was embarrassed, so very ashamed.

 _Nothing_ she did mattered, she realised, the thought bouncing through her mind like a breaking news headline. She had no control over anything. Not her background, how people saw her, the way Charles felt about her, nor whether or not he may, one day, decide to walk away from her, when this endless cycle of disfunction became too much. Not even her body, or who put their hands on it… Or, she thought, as she looked down at the drying stains of blood on her hands, how inevitable it was that she was doomed to turn into her father.

It was Elvis who came through the door and found her in the end. He had been on route to the extra fridge in the laundry where the beer was kept, jovial and whistling to himself, his thoughts focussed on the joke he had been part way through telling. Molly watched as he stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of her on the floor, as she immediately tried and failed to get herself together to stand. Her vision was unclear, though whether it was the result of tears or something else, she hadn't the capacity to diagnose.

"Moll?" His Special Forces did him credit, as he caught himself from the momentary shock almost immediately. "Bloody hell, darlin', what's happened?" His eyes scanned over her, no doubt assessing for injury. Immediately, his long stride covered the distance between them, but the movement was far too fast and she immediately flinched, cringing into herself at the very idea that he might touch her. She didn't want anyone anywhere near her, shame and despair stoking the nausea in her again.

He stopped short, his flat palms immediately raised in a diplomatic surrender, weary and calm. "Okay, _okay_. I won't. I won't touch you." The noise of the men in the kitchen raised her heart rate again as she suddenly became aware of just how _many_ there were, just how many people could stand to see her utterly humiliated if she didn't, somehow, find her breath again.

The increase in panic must have been written on her face, because he squatted even lower, shushing her. "It's okay, Moll. Are you hurt?" Immediately, she dug her fingers into her own skin at her hands, cringing against the sight of the blood there, now drying and muddy brown. She managed to shake her head, her fingers biting painfully into her own neck. She closed her eyes, unable to look at him while he pitied her so, feeling dizzy as she silently cried. "Okay. I'm gonna' go and get Charlie, okay? Sit tight."

That made her look. Her eyes snapped open as she blinked through the tears enough to try and look at him, inaudibly trying to plead with him to be as discrete as he could. Slowly, he moved back the way he came and Molly clenched everything, the equivalent of holding her breath in trepidation, had it not been for the fact she already couldn't breathe properly. She wasn't sure what she expected, some big exclamation, a raucous show of 'caveman husband' behaviour, screams of "Man down!" in the vain of the Army, perhaps... but instead, the boisterous conversation continued, the only difference being now that it contained two less voices.

He knew by the look on Elvis' face that something was wrong immediately – the army drilled so much of 'expected the unexpected' into you that it was an Officer's _job_ to just know from one look. Sometimes, it was all you were able to give. Now though, instead of sprinting into action, he felt the unwelcome clammy nature of his palms and the painful spike of his heart rate, all motivated by a new-found paranoia, made worse by the fact they _weren't_ working now. This was home turf.

Thankfully, the rest of their old Sandhurst friends had been facing away from Elvis and were too busy discussing the potentials of Brexit to notice. Charles slipped toward the door in all of three strides, filled with questions but they all fell away the moment Elvis stopped him and uttered the two words that all military personnel come to fear.

"Man down," he uttered, so quietly that only Charles could hear. His heart squeezed as his body instantly steeled for what was to come, confusion surrounding him like a rising mist. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as the adrenaline began racing.

"What—?"

"Before I tell you, you have to promise to chill the fuck out, alright?"

 _"Elvis,_ I sweat to _God_ ––."

"––it's Molly."

It took everything in him not to leap at his friend and demand answers, to break the cover that Elvis was evidentially trying to maintain for a reason. His chest felt tight and his fists clenched. He had _known_ letting her go to the pub without him was a bad idea. After all, she was still in the phase of not being able to sit with her back to people or the exit to a room for fear of what might happen. He had tried and tried to argue the sense of the situation into her, that there was no rush, she had _nothing_ to prove, but she called him irrational for suggesting that she couldn't simply go out with her new friend and enjoy one drink. What she had really meant, of course, was she had made up her mind to try and _force_ her fear away, which had been stoked up by their meeting with her solicitor, and subsequently didn't want to admit to herself that it might be a decision she would come to regret. He had then offered to drive her and she had snapped at him about that too, pointing out that his long standing boy's night in, planned long before any of the shit had happened, could hardly be cancelled just so he could be her personal taxi service. He had bitten his tongue, but only just, as he watched her go in his brooding silence that inevitably always followed when they argued.

Elvis inclined his head towards the door behind his body before turning to open it. Charles primed himself to launch his barrage of questions as he moved to close the door, but before he knew it, his eyes fell upon the cause of the commotion as he took in the sight of Molly in a curled heap on their welcome mat.

" _Jesus!_ Molly!" He didn't let himself think before he pushed to close the distance between his body and hers, only to be stopped in his tracks by the iron forearm of his friend. " _Elvis_ —," he began, automatically about to ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing, but Elvis' eyes were on Molly.

"Take a breath, Charlie, yeah?" he advised calmly, quiet enough for only him to hear above Molly's laboured breathing. Momentarily, Charles could barely swallow his irritation. "Slow down. This… _isn't_ the Molly we know."

Biting back a retort, he turned his attention back to his wife and only when he gave himself a moment did he see really what Elvis meant. She was hyperventilating quietly, as though she had been running a long time, her feet bare of her shoes, dirty and red raw with cold. She was shaking, shivering violently, as though she had been outside in the winter temperatures a good while, but it was more than that; it looked as though she had no emotional control over her own body.

He immediately crouched low, ignoring the fierce ache in his bad leg and recently healing ribs when doing so, until his face was in her eye-line, but he was shaken to realise she was staring at them both with a look that was both desolate and resigned, as though she only half registered they were there through the tears that fell, silently, down her cheeks and over her chin.

"Hey, hey, _hey –_ shh – hello, beautiful," he greeted in as calm and controlled a voice as he could manage over the sound of her ragged attempts to inhale, forcing his features into a soft, comforting smile. "Breathe, okay? Can you see me? Focus on me… Elvis? Call for help––."

Beside him, Elvis has appeared with a glass of water, Lord only knew how he'd managed to summon one up so quickly. "Ambulance?"

Molly's wide eyes darted wildly at the word, shaking her head violently as her rapid breathing only worsened.

"Okay, okay, no ambulance," he stumbled quickly, anxiety swamping him. Molly's eyes suddenly closed as she seemed to be withdrawing within herself, her expression pained. Charles had glanced speedily at his friend, silently asking him what to do, when Elvis had then indicated down toward Molly's hands with his eyes. Charles followed the poignant gaze and, to his horror, noticed the dark, unmistakeable stain of dried blood on her hands; her knuckle an angry shade of red that no doubt implied a dislocation.

His mind raced, working of the probability of what may have occurred and the likelihood that the blood was hers. His own breathing began to pick up at the sight of it as he desperately searched all he could see of her skin for sign of injury. He tried to pull himself out of his own consciousness and into the role of pragmatic platoon leader, realising with increasing horror that he couldn't seem to do so. Now she was his wife, there _was_ no separating one half of him for the sake of the other. She laid claim to all of him.

Making a split-second decision, Charles moved slowly into the no man's land around her and reached for her non injured hand, giving it a tight squeeze. Immediately, she forced her eyes open, looking at him dizzily as fresh tear tracks made their well worn path down her cheeks, her breathing so erratic that it made her chest jolt with the uneven force of it.

"I'm here," he said softly, hurriedly. abandoning all attempts to be 'Captain James' and instead focusing on letting the intimacy of their connection cut through the noise. " _Molly_? Look at me." She shivered violently, which seemed to snap him into action as he immediately shrugged off his cardigan and slowly draping it over her shoulders. He hummed our soft sounds of sympathy as he did so, taking the opportunity to look over her. She was so pale was she almost blue, in gross contrast to the dark, copper stains of blood on her hands. "What happened, sweetheart? Did you run home? Whose is this blood? Are you hurt?"

She was staring at him, straight ahead, almost as though she wasn't entirely present, too distracted by her desperate need for oxygen and to forget something sinister. She let out a tiny sob, clenching her eyes shut, immediately making him berate himself for the panicked tone of him voice. "Shh, you're okay," he cooed, sifting him voice as he tried his best to pacify her without taking her into his arms – though he couldn't help but move closer still. The haze of panic was surrounding him again, a feeling so sickening and foreign that it made him shake.

"I'm _dying,_ Charlie."

It was almost a shock to hear her speak to him, as he had expected her to keep her silence that had felt so oppressive. He frowned, his heart in his mouth at the dark and seemingly desolate words she was sobbing, as though all hope was lost. She was shaking so hard that she couldn't even manage to claw at her own skin the way she seemed to want to. He immediately held both her hands in his. "My heart," she choked, trying to grab at her throat. "I think I'm— _dying_ —Can't breathe—."

He knew the symptoms well, on paper. Panic and fear took many forms, but at their most base and cruel, they sped up your heart, stoked by the anxiety that had been long brewing in your own mind, and this in turn only made your body panic more. It was a CO's prerogative to know the signs... but it didn't make them anymore horrid to watch.

"—No, you're not," Charles pressed, ardently, forcing a smile as false as a three pound note. "You know what's happening? You're having a panic attack. That's all. I know it's frightening, but if you don't want ua to have to get help, you need to get your breathing back, okay?" She sobbed, her lungs heaving loudly with an aggressive attempt to inhale properly as he said the words aloud, evidently struggling with the reality. Beneath his hands, he could feel her entire form practically rattling.

"Hey, Moll?" Elvis said authoritatively, leaning down beside his friend. "I know it's scary when your lungs don't feel like they're working, but I know a fix, okay?" Charles squeezed her hand as he allowed himself to inch even closer while Elvis spoke, settling his hand on her legging-clad knee. "Tell me about your happy place, hm? Close your eyes… and tell what you see – don't think too much."

Charles watched, feeling helpless and utterly useless, as she struggled to get a hold of her own mind, squeezing her fists into the fabric of neckline of the jumper dress she wore, as thought ripping it form her might make breathing easier.

"Oman," she wheezed out, closing his eyes. "Our honeymoon."

Charles' heart felt like it might punch through his chest at those two words, so small and fragile and yet, so very reverent. Watching her closed eyes move restlessly beneath the lids, he reminded himself to focus on the weight of her hand in both of his to keep himself focused.

"Do I _want_ to hear this?" Elvis snorted, dryly, doing so with the intention of putting her at ease. She managed a tiny noise of amusement, the kind a person made when a doctor made small talk while sticking a needling in your arm. "How mushy was it? _Nauseating_?"

"Yeah," she forced out, her lungs lurching for her next breath. Charles couldn't help but coo and hush her, unable to sit aside and do nothing at all while she struggled so visibly. "But it was the place… Just like I always dreamed Afghan could've been. Seeing Bashira safe and happy…"

Elvis slowly crept around her to settling his own jumper over her shoulders as he asked her what she meant by that. Charles knew, of course, and by one look at his friend, he knew that he also knew the answer: it was simply a ploy to keep her wtalking.

"It was… all heat… an' moon dust an' colour… but no war." The words were staccato, but her breathing was less violent than before.

"And that's why it's your happy place?"

Charles felt a lump rise, unwelcome and stubbornly unmoving, in his throat at her answer. "An' 'course Charlie... It was just him and me… Was the first time I realised that he'd really done it… He'd really chosen… _me_."

"Hm?" Elvis hummed in a false impression of surprise, but in reality he was giving Charles a soft and empathic smile – one Charles knew to mean that he was touched, too. "Well, if you ask me, this git chose you long before you had any say in it. But it does sound like a very happy place, indeed."

With that, Molly's eyes opened; her breathing settled enough for her to focus her eyes on them both. She seemed to talk them both in with more awareness as she realised that they were discussing Charles in third person, despite the fact he was right there. Her eyes were filled with fresh tears as she locked eyes on his and he nodded, in agreement with his friend assessment. Her body then shuddered violently of its own accord, reawakening them to the slightly pressing issue of her body temperature.

"How about we get you in a hot bath, hm? Did you run all the way home?" She tried to fight the shivering but it was as though, suddenly, she realised how cold she was, curling herself toward Charles a little for warmth, though she couldn't seem to move her body the few inches distance between them.

"Fuck… I'm… taters," she whispered, the 'f' sound dragging and tripping form her lips in a stammer as she attempted to pull herself toward him, her chin chattering and making her teeth knock together. The moment she moved of her own accord, the two men leapt into action, no longer afraid of making her panic. Immediately, Charles moved to wrap his cardigan fully around her and pulled her into his hold before quietly bending down enough to meet her dipped gaze in a silent plea.

"Can you walk, or should I carry you up?"

"Um, C, ain't you still hurt?" Elvis interjected, concerned. Charles was tempted to ignore him, but Molly's gaze seemed to widen, seemingly panicking at this suggestion.

"N-no… No one… else… I can w-walk––." She stumbled on seemingly number feet in an attempt to prove her point. Immediately, Charles caught her, shrugging off Elvis' concerns and lowering himself to her eye line.

"Molly –," he began, speaking slowly and diplomatically, almost like he was negotiating with a feral animal. "I'm going to touch you to pick you up, okay?" They locked eyes, fearful green eyes shining at him in a plea he always wished he could understand, and only then did Charles allow himself to slip his hand over the underside of her thighs, dangerous ground, lifting her into his chest over both arms with relative ease and ignoring the twinge in his muscles. He attempted not to flinch in horror at the icy temperature of her skin, even through the fabric of her oversized jumper. He daren't allow himself to contemplate what could have possibly happened for her to have ended up this way.

In the bathroom, Elvis had ran ahead and had started up the open shower as Charles slowly managed to shuffle Molly's weight in his arms enough to toe off his indoor shoes. Slowly, he moved across the small en-suite bathroom while cradling a shuddering Molly in his arms and attempted to put her down on her feet in front of the shower. Immediately however, Molly gripped his t-shirt with both hands, saying absolutely nothing. Her silence was more terrifying to him than any amount of hysteria from the previous week, because silence was so very unlike her. Her eyes were wide, the whites of them shining in the bright lighting the bounced off the tiles, as they seemed to plead with him not to let her go, but also not to ask any questions. The look was such a bleak one that he daren't.

"Shh— _okay_ , okay," he whispered softly, smoothing his hands over where she gripped his shirt, massaging the straining tendons. Shaking, she was trying to pull aggressively at her jumper again, the high neckline evidently making her struggles for breath feel all the more restricted. "You want this off?" With slow and careful hands, he took the hem in his hands. Immediately, her eyes settled on Elvis in the doorway, who was lingering at the door as though he were standing to attention in apprehension of enemy fire. Immediately, he excused himself and only then did Charles pull the material over her head. She slowly wilted back until she was under the stream of the water immediately, still clad in her underwear and leggings, as though the power of the water would shield her from the vulnerability of the outside world.

She pulled him with her, but he needed to strip himself of his own heavy jeans, so his fingers slipped from hers. Immediately, she stumbled back toward him, grabbing hard at his shirt. "Don't go!" The fragile urgency of the strangled, panicked cry rose a lump in his throat, because it was so unlike the Molly he knew, the Molly he married, and much more like the Molly who coward behind the stone ditch the very first time she was subjected to enemy fire.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered firmly, plastering his best smile in place. Not letting go of her hand as she nudged backward just enough to be beneath the warm water, he slowly undid his jeans with the other to save them getting sodden, before stepping across the threshold and into the steam.

He steadied her as she pressed her face against the tiled wall, slowly curling down until she was seated on the floor beside the central drain. He curled himself around her, angling both their faces out of the direct spray of the luke-warm water. He slowly rocked her in his lap, the way he used to hold Sam when he had nightmares, cradling her like an infant as he sat cross legged against the wall. He reached for the smaller shower head and turned the tap to trigger the flow, checking the temperature wasn't too hot before running it over her, smoothing back her hair with the force of the water followed by the soft caress of his thumb at her hairline, before turning the tap back to the overhead shower and letting the heavy stream thunder down around them like rain again.

Mercifully, her shivering was subsiding rather quickly, but she cried into his wet t-shirt, the sheer force of each ragged exhale making his chest hurt in a phantom kind of empathetical agony. His fingers caressed the back of her neck and over each bulb and dip of the vertebrae in her spine, looking up at the ceiling through the spray and blinking his own emotion torment away. He was grateful for the spray, rather immaturely. It made any trace of his own emotion that may leak from his eye indistinguishable.

"You'll warm up quicker if we're skin to skin," he murmured against her damp hair as he swayed. "How about I take this wet shirt off, hm?" She sat up enough for him to peel the wet cotton over his head and he felt unnerved by her lack of piss taking, even when he narrowly missed getting the shirt stuck. Easing her back against his chest, she exhaled a sigh that was almost a sob.

"What _happened,_ Molly?" He pleaded, desperate for answers. "Let me help."

 _"Hey,_ keep looking at me." Even Charles' voice offered her no comfort, now. It was soft, persuasive, but she could barely even process a word he was saying. The heat and humidity of the shower cubicle was an immediate relief on her rigid frame, which was so cold that she could barely feel her own skin. She was just so _cold…_ The thought had even crossed her mind that she had been cold enough to die.

Was this fear what it felt like to be dying?

"Molly, please, come on." He was trying to pry her hands from around around him, soap in his hand as he tried to clean them; the white bar turning the dirty, coppery brown. The undeniable colour of dried blood. The sight immediately made her breath heave again, catching in her throat as her stomach rolled.

"Hey! Shh, you're alright. Deep breaths – in and out."

How was everyone always so _calm_? Her heart thrummed in her chest and forced her breath to heave like a runaway train – she had no hope of catching it. How didn't they _see_ that she could be _dying_?

 _"I'm going to d-die,"_ she whispered, not hearing herself. "He's g-going to kill—kill me."

"No, Molly, he's not," Charles denied hotly, immediately, smoothing a hot, wet hand cupping her face. "And on my _life,_ he won't ever hurt you again." Her hands were shaking violently as he gripped them.

"I am," she insisted, barely hearing him. "I can feel it… Why y'wasting your time on me?"

"Enough of that," he pushed, forcefully. She didn't notice how his voice cracked. "I would do anything for you. I chose you _long_ ago…"

She was just so _tired._ "I just want to feel okay again."

"I know, my love, I know… and you will be."

Charles had never known emotional exhaustion quite like that which had befallen him that night. He held her under the force of the water, not daring to let up the grip of his embrace until she did – by which time, they were both pruned and lethargic. By then, Jackie had arrived, looking frantic as she searched the bathroom for her friend as she raced into the room. She halted violently when her eyes found the two of them, no doubt taken aback to see Molly, a strong, grown woman, across his lap on the tiles of their shower, half dressed.

She had a hand over her mouth, gasping in what seemed to be relief, but also something else. Evidently, she had been searching for Molly for a while, her cheeks flushed with cold and yet, despite her clear anguish, Charles was ashamed to say he found himself prickled by nothing but anger and contempt; how could she let this happen to her friend, who had been _clearly_ vulnerable when left alone?

Molly flinched at the presence of another in the room, rousing from her coma-like state in his arms and gripping his skin hard enough to pinch. He shushed her, focusing all his attention on keeping her calm in the way one tries their best to put a newborn down to sleep; distractions were not negotiable.

"It's just Jackie," he whispered, stroking her soaked hair flat against her head and pressing his lips to her head. If Jackie noticed his mood, she didn't voice it. In fact, she was gone by the time he allowed himself to tear his gaze away from Molly again.

Eventually, he whispered to Molly the suggestion that they might get dry and let her slowly undress herself of her wet clothes, still behind the protection of the open show glass. He kept his eyes on her face, unwavering, as he held her towelled dressing gown around her to shield her from view, despite the fact they were alone and the fact he had seen it all before, because this wasn't about him. This was about the fact that, to _this_ Molly, it did feel vulnerable, bare, _terrified,_ like the very first time of a teenage girl from another life.

Only when he was satisfied she was covered up did he allow himself to towel dry, barely noticing the goosebumps that had risen on his own body while waiting for her to settle on the edge of the bed. She seemed to watch him as he did so, stripping himself of his wet briefs hastily, and her expression was entirely emotionless, as though she were asleep with her eyes open. He tried his best to swallow the panic it roused in him, but he could feel the worry niggling his chest long after he had settled her on their bed, pulling out pyjamas for her.

"That one. Please." she whispered from behind him just as his hands lingered over his old red and white St. Andrews shirt in the open drawer. It rose an organise smile from him and he happily pulled it out for her along with a pair of her bottoms. He had long known it was one of her favourites to pinch from him. As he laid the items down for her to put on once she was dry, busying himself with getting dressed into his pyjamas. Again, she seemed to stare into space, curling her knees against her chest in the oversized fabric of the dressing gown. Her hair was wet and left droplets running down her face, but it was as though she didn't feel it, glancing nervously at the closed bedroom door as though expecting an intruder at any moment.

"You'll need an ice pack for that knuckle," he rambled into the silence, noticing how it was now red and angry looking from the heat of the shower and where she had gripped his shirt. "It looks painful. I'd hate to see the other guy." He cringed at his own choice of words immediately, rubbing his forehead and flexing his fist to relieve some tension. "I'm sorry, that was—,"

"—Careful... Beginning to sound like me," she whispered flatly, her chin on her knees as she stared forward, as though fixated on something far away. Slowly, he moved soundlessly barefooted across the carpet and settle himself beside her, towel in hand, and began to dry her hair manually. The task not only gave him a focus, something to anchor himself to considering the anxiety in the room, but it also served the most practical purpose of keeping her from getting cold again. Finally, she relaxed into his repetitive movements as he rubbed the towel over her hair and around the ends, brushing from root to tip, before squeezing the newly saturated ends with the towel again. It didn't take long for her long, heavy locks to become lighter again as it dried, becoming soft and feathery between his fingers. He still, to that day, couldn't believe just how much of it she had.

"How you doing, soldier?" he murmured softly against the back of her head, puckering a kiss there. "Tell me what's going on in that pretty head of yours."

"You don't want to know," she whispered after a long pause, her tone entirely flat and weary. "My nut's a shitstorm..."

"Oh? Then why did I ask?"

She sighed wearily, as though there was so much he didn't know. "Because you don't know what's good for you, you prannet," she sighed sardonically, despite the fact his had been a rhetorical question, slowly moving to reach for the pyjamas. He was watching closely as she moved and didn't miss the way she held the lapels of the dressing gown together self consciously, still glancing at the closed door suspiciously. Taking initiative, he moved to stand protectively at the threshold, blocking any access to the door should an intruder try to open it, though he knew that no intruder would. She was watching him with a sudden shine to the whites of her eyes, a stark vulnerability turning to a look of fierce gratitude. It was all he could do but smile softly, determined to make her feel as though his blocking the door from intruders that only existed in her mind was the most normal thing in the world.

The quiet didn't last long. The moment he suggested they get some sleep, she was stuttering, her eyes wide, that she didn't want to sleep because she would dream – of _Him_. It was enough to turn his stomach.

"We still have some of those sleeping pills that Mum prescribed for you before – I'll get you one. _Elvis_?" He called out, knowing his friend would be lingering in the hallway. Almost immediately, he reappeared. Charles ushered him closer with the flick of his hand and a Elvis immediately stood to attention close enough for him to murmur. "Tell the others they are welcome to go down to the pub on me, but it's probably best they go." Thankfully, Elvis didn't hesitate to follow orders on this occasion. "Is Jackie out there?"

"Yeah, she said she was going to hang around for a bit in case you need anything, but I told her I'd be here––."

"––Jackie?" Molly looked between the two men, arms tight around her own body in a defensive stance, her eyes shining in shame. "Tell her she don't have to stay––."

"Sweetheart," Charles began carefully, stepping backward in anticipation of retrieving her friend, "if you'd rather she stayed, I can––."

"No!" Her response was an urgent one, panicked, and immediately he closed the distance between them again. "Please don't go," she whimpered, clinging to his shirt. "I _need_ ––I need you here––."

"I won't, Sweetheart. I won't." Hushing her like one might a wounded animal, he settled onto the bed with him against her, watching her take the sleeping pill that lay still in her clenched fist with a trembling hand. Elvis must have sensed the intimacy in her anxiety and slipped out, because only when the door was firmly closed did Molly let go of him again. She settled into the pillows, fussing over them as though she couldn't get comfortable, the movement morphing into a furious frustration, misdirected at their bedclothes, a ragged sob catching her breath.

"Easy, easy, _easy!_ " He curled her arms around her to keep her arms pinned and rolled until she was on top of him against the pillows, heaving into the skin of his neck. "I have you," he cooed, repeating the mantra that was quickly becoming a reflex. "You're safe now. Just try to relax." He felt her taking rhythmic deep breaths, muttering some kind of mantra to herself. "Good girl––."

 _"––Don't call me that!"_ She cried, seeming personally offended by his praise. She slammed her hands down against the covers, bearing seeming to flinch. "I ain't good – I'm damaged. I cause a shit storm everywhere I go!"

"Molly—."

"—First _you_ on that bridge, then _Smurf_ , now my career is up the shitter because of my…big, _stupid_ mouth and now... Now, I'm no better than my _dad_."

Her tone was higher than usual, implying her previous hysteria may be at risk of returning, so he kept his quiet in response. He pressed his face to the side of her head, inhaling the fresh scent of her shampoo and simply pressed kisses to her hair in a manner that told her he didn't agree with her self assessment.

"I don't understand," he whispered, slowly. "What do you mean, you're 'no better than your dad'? You're _nothing_ like Dave—."

"—I _hurt_ someone, Charles."

The words were rushed and mumbled, but unmistakable. He stiffened, pulling back enough to try read her expression, his larges hand bracketing her face. He swallowed the dread that passed over him like a chill on the back of his neck and forced his face to remain neutral. " _Okay…_ " he drawled, desperately attempting an impassive tone, deploying his most basic of trauma training. "Is that who's blood was on your hands? I thought it resembled fight wound."

When she nodded, he swallowed thickly and pushed back an invisible strand of her hair from her hairline, nervously. "Can you tell me what happened?" He slammed his eyes shut as he waited for her answer, mentally pleading that it wasn't as bad as it could be.

"I clumped a bloke in the schnozer," she croaked, grabbing for his hand like a child and staring down at it. "He didn't mean to, but he jus' gave me a fright. Touched me wrong as he tried to get round me to go inside, din'he? And it just… 'appened." She looked down at their hands, her expression one of shame. "'e was just a lad – I dunno' what I was thinkin'––Well, I _weren't_ thinkin', I suppose. That's what…what _He's_ gone an' done to me…" Her Cockney vanecukour always returned with a particular strength when she was animated, whether that be through tears or through excitement. The words flowed out of her in the manner of a confession so fast she almost seemed to trip over them.

"You've been through a horrific trauma," he replied carefully, curling himself around as she cocooned herself into the foetal position on her side. "What… _He_ did to you… It's incomprehensible… and I know if fills _me_ with… _rage._ " He stopped himself short. This wasn't about him. "No one will hold one punch against you; least of all me." He watched her carefully as she forced her eyes closed and pressed her face against his chest, as though, if she burrow hard enough, she and he might just become one. "Do you remember how blue that ocean was? In Oman?" He wasn't sure what made him ask that question specifically, but he was desperate, grasping at straws to attempt to recreate the calm that Elvis had managed to bring to her, remembering her happy place. Their happy place. The nod was tiny, but he held the movement against his skin. Her silence was stifling, so he found himself talking, filling the void. "You said it was 'proper nice and turquoise', like your birthstone."

She frowned at his haphazard changed of subject, but seemed to soften a little at the mental image and allowed herself to smile. "Think it might be my most favourite place in the world," she whispered, finally allowing herself to wilt and relax against him only after the gentle persuasion of his fingers massaging at the base of her skull.

"I think mine is Rome," he murmured nostalgically, running his other hand up and down her spine. "All those _carbs._ "

" _Mate,"_ Molly scoffed, a glimmer of her usual ballsy humour returning, though her voice still croaked. "You and I both know you ate barely a crumb compared to me, stuffing my face across the table."

" _Oh_ , but what a lovely view across the table it was," he sighed, humorously, wistfully thinking back to the wonderful sight of her grinning from ear to ear as she slurped up the handmade spaghetti so aggressively that she splattered the sauce all over her chin. "One of my favourites."

"One of mine was watchin' you reading all them non fiction books all squinty and intense."

He tightened his arms around her in response, chortling against her ear. "Actually, I believe you originally said I looked _'sexy and brooding'_ with my intense reading face?"

She hummed, seeming uncharacteristically morose and weary despite his attempt at humour. "I did," she whispered. "It took you two whole hours to notice I was sunbathing with my tits out when we was in Rome 'cause you were so into them bloody books..." She suddenly sounded mournful. "I felt so… _free_ that day; was the first time I had ever been any place where women sunbathed like that, since I'd only been to bloody Margate before you and your posh holidays. First time I realised that it was possible to feel so in charge or your own body as a woman that you might _choose_ to sunbathe topless and, better yet, no one blinks an eye... No one calls you a slut for just wanting to do what men do."

The difference was marginal, barely noticeable, but Charles heard it; he was looking for it. Her choice of words saddened him beyond anything; the resignation. "Yeah?" His fingers drew over her hairline and over her jawline and back up again, fascinated by the minuscule inflections of her mood as they played out on her face and, in all honesty, frightened into silence. He didn't want her to go back into her withdrawal, but he was also afraid anything he said might make her panicked again. Gradually, the muscles in her face contorted as she to struggled with the force with which she wanted to cry and howl or laugh. She ground her teeth and bared them as she fought the emotions that roused in her with every ounce of her strength, her eyelids beginning to droop as the pill finally began to take effect.

"Don't fight it," he whispered, hoarsely, curling all four of his limbs around her in the way she so often had to him.

"I was twenty one before I felt like that for the first time... and here I am, less than two years later… and it's all gone." The tearful candour in her voice was chilling, as she seemed weighed down by the words as she spoke with a breathy tone of voice that told of a bleak, sudden realisation. It was enough to make him wince, unshed tears burning in his eyes. "I'm never going to feel that free in my own body again, am I?"


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: Again, I've been working on this for an age, between shifts and being generally broke and hibernating because of the weather. Somehow it all came together finally tonight and this chapter finally became something I might share - so I eagerly await your thoughts, particular on Charles' revelations and insecurities..._

 _I've done some research and honestly? It's all quite fascinating, how men react to sexual violence of those close to them and, most critically, what their reactions say about them... I hope you can all agree I got Charles right okay._

 _x_

* * *

 _"One critical dimension to observe [after rape occurs] is whether husbands and boyfriends see the victim as a victim. In other words, who do they perceive to be the victim of the rape––the woman herself, her parents, her husband/boyfriend? Do they see her as a person in her own right who has been hurt by the assault, or do they view her more as their possession whose value has diminished. [...]_

 _Who do they blame––the assailant, the woman or themselves? How much do they consider it their duty and their right to keep a woman's sexual life under their surveillance and control––to keep her away from others sexually and available to themselves at will?_

 _Perhaps the most crucial underlying and typically unstated issue is wether the husband or boyfriend sees the rape primarily as sex or, primarily, as violence.""._

 **–– _"_ Rape: The Husband's and Boyfriend's Initial Reactions"** by Holmstrom and Burgess (1979)  
(' _The Family Coordinator'_ Journal, Vol. 28, No. 3; National Council of Family Relations).

* * *

 **XXVII**

* * *

Charles didn't sleep, not even once Molly had fallen well and truly into unconsciousness with the assistance of the pharmaceuticals provided by his mother. He found himself staring for her at first, watching almost obsessively for signs of discomfort on her face, even though it was like watching for the rippling threat of a tsunami on seemingly peaceful water. After a while, he found he was staring past her, seeing nothing, his mind wondering to happier times, some absently so and some so full of such _bliss_ that they were blinding. It frightened him how much such moments felt like they were from a past life, eternally out of reach to him now.

He became so stiff and uncomfortable in bed eventually, thanks to his bad leg and aching ribs more than anything, that he had to get up. He found himself hesitating as he tried to rise from the mattress, cringing with each movement and every rustle and creak they caused, paranoid that she would somehow rouse form and be thrown straight back into the reality of her uncharacteristic new fear. He had petrified him to see her so afraid, to see the woman he knew to be so self-sufficient, proud and brave become someone else entirely.

"I love you," he whispered against her forehead, pressing a kiss against the skin his words had just swept over. "I'll be right back." She didn't rouse an inch, to his relief, only for intense guilt to follow at the idea that a part of him, however small, didn't want her to wake for the the possibility of having to deal with her anxiety again. It would be more than he was beginning to think he could bare.

Slowly, he rose and fished a quiet hand into his bedside in search of his latest read, when suddenly his hand fell on the unexpected cool texture of the familiar tin he had all but forgotten resided there. It had been in his bergen in Kenya, as it had on all previous exercises and tours, but he hadn't really been with it when Molly had unpacked for him this last time, all things considered. Padding into the hall and down the stairs, he held it in his hand and stared at it like an object that might become hostile at any moment. Picking up his keys from the dish in the hallway, he took the tiny key that lay all but unnoticed amongst his house keys and, hesitantly, slipped it into the lock.

There was a reason the tin had a lock, of course. It contained the kind of things that he would never want to fall into the wrong hands, whether that be the small, curious mitts of Sam or worse, the grubbier of those belonging to Two Section. The contents were the most private he possessed and the very thought of them doing didn't bare thinking about, if not for the sake of his pride, then most definitely for the sake of Molly… since its content mostly featured her in photographs one could only refer to as compromising.

His heart rate all but spiked as he settled at the kitchen counter and lifted the lid, setting eyes on said risqué polaroids for the first time in a number of months. He hadn't had all of much chance to look over them on his latest tour, having been far too busy until the night he was kidnapped, and after that? Well, he had all but forgotten of their existence with all the two of them had been dealing with.

It was fascinating, really, how entire memories come to life in one's mind at the sight of a specific photograph. He glanced down at the first in the top of the small pile and he couldn't help but feel heat rise up the back of his neck and turn his skin pink. The soft but unmistakable curves of Molly's bare form entranced him, the pale expanse of her bare back a wonderful contrast to the long waves of her hair, where it fell like a curtain over one shoulder. She was looking over the other shoulder at the lens with the demure expression fit for a mystical siren, what with the sheer length of her hair and the unashamed raw sexuality in her eyes. One look and he had to brace himself against the kitchen island as the memory of the moment he took the photograph flood him.

They had been on their honeymoon when she had gifted him the camera on the premise that they use it to take photographs to keep themselves _occupied_ whenever the other was away on tour or elsewhere. He had keenly taken to the idea as it had been a rather clever one. Not only did he love the idea of collecting the photographs… but he had adored the idea of having a way to capture Molly in their most intimate moments, while not having to worry about technology ever being hacked or the photos ever being duplicated.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself for whatever photograph may lay next in the pile, knowing that somewhere in the pile, they were going to get all the more graphic. He was both anxious and apprehensive in digging up these memories; he wasn't sure he was prepared for the feelings that they may leave behind. Still though, he couldn't help but carry on lifting one photograph and then another.

The flash of the camera gave Molly's skin a creamy glow that made his fingers twitch with the phantom memories of the countless times he had felt the soft expanse of his skin beneath his hands. He shuffled through a few more photographs, some more innocent than others; the two of them sipping cocktails, Molly giving him the finger when he took her picture with his mouth full of American pancakes, only for his passing gaze to halt immediately as he stumbled upon one of the more explicit images. A whisper of a sigh escaped him as he gazed at the contrasting colours that made up the shape of her as she arched her back above him, over him, nude and golden with her honeymoon tan, completely unaware in the moment of the photograph being taken until its flash had already been and gone as her head was thrown back in pleasure. His skin pricked to look at it, almost as though he was a teenager with unsavoury materials under his bed and he might be caught at any moment. He tensed at the warm wave of desire that coursed through him, since it was a means to no end.

Another featured them both as he held the camera at arms length, taken in their hotel the morning after their wedding. They were both in towelled bath robes and he pressed his lips to her face in an obnoxiously loud and squeaky kiss, only narrowly missing the corner of her eye, as he recalled. She was amid laughing and groaning in mock reluctance at his bolstering affections as the flash had captured them, and he found himself grinning at her expression; it was one he knew so very well.

One image in particular triggered his reverie. In it, she was reclined on her sun lounger in nothing but bikini bottoms – the moment that had come up in conversation the night before, when she had confessed to the moment being so very influential in her womanhood. She had taken to sunbathing the way the European women around them were doing and he had been so relaxed and enthralled in his book beside her, he hadn't noticed at first. In the end, she had leaned over and kissed his cheek, trying her best to provoke him in the way she often did when she was feeling childishly fidgety and craving his affections. Safe to say, he had momentarily fallen victim to the stereotype of his conservative upbringing, his eyes briefly bulging out of his head at the sight of her without her bikini top as he caught his lip between his teeth.

 _"My, my, Mrs. James,"_ he had drawled as she leaned almost entirely onto his lounger and nudged her nose against his, his casual tone a foolish attempt to cover with which his heart rate spiked painfully in his chest and his trunks became uncomfortable. _"It appears you've lost something?"_

She had been predictably teasing in response, but after all this time, shamefully he couldn't remember her response, now. All that stood out to him now was the memory of her breasts against his skin, a delightfully familiar grazing sensation of skin against skin that felt all kinds of wrong to be feeling in public, despite the fact that there were dozens of women around them who were also topless. After all, only one pair of breasts mattered to him.

In the end, he had gathered as much adult composure he could muster and let her go to continue reading while she attempted to sit still long enough to build her tan. Shamefully, he had then _feigned_ reading for the next hour or so, unable to focus on anything but the rise and fall of her breasts as she dozed, marvelling at her beauty in the golden light. He remembered feeling the most bizarre and combination of intense pride to be the man beside her whose ring she wore on her finger… and that age-old green-eyed possessiveness that made him stare down every male tourist whose surprised-turn-hungry gazes so much as flitted in her direction as she dozed.

Her confession after her panic attack the night before seemed to shift his entire perspective on its head. It now felt wrong for him to have felt so ardently as though she was _his_ possession to be proud of. More so, he felt ashamed that _he too_ had ogled at her, just like all those one or two tourist strangers, in those moments when she dozed, soaking up the sun and minding her own business. He felt ashamed of his lack of understanding; her partial nudity had not been for him, honeymoon or not. It had been a moment of epiphany, a benchmark of feminine liberty and yet even he had been ignorant and arrogant enough to assume that it had been for the sake of seducing _him_.

He suddenly felt a wave of unexpected emotion rising in his throat, at not only his own shame for wanting her, then _and_ now, but at the happiness in every photograph between his fingers. It suddenly occurred to him that it had been a great many months since he had seen even a fraction of such happiness in his wife's eyes. He swallowed hard, expecting to irradiate the lump in his throat, but the attempt was futile. His chest ached with the way he suddenly yearned so violently for her, for the intense intimacy they once shared so easily, and he felt so very alone in it. Molly's demons would and should always come first, he had no doubt of that, but the combination of lack of sleep and frayed emotions after her panicked episode made him realise how much he had, for lack of a better term, run out of rope.

So he was relatively powerless to stop the tears as they began to fall, slow but heavy, leaving the trace of salt on his lips and blurring his vision. He desperately tried to clear them away, but the more he tried, they more they persisted and he couldn't help but feel choked by an alien sensation of panic and despair. What _if_ he could never make her as happy as they had been, before? What if he wasn't capable, or strong enough, to make her better? What _then_?

He found himself desperately trying to strategise, clinging to the naive hope that he could solve the problem – it was a Captain's prerogative, after all. As it was, he could think of nothing but the aching nostalgia that swirled inside him, that age-old sickening feeling that all your best times just might be behind you.

A noise in the doorway roused him from his melancholy stupor violently as he immediately sat straight, an ingrained military habit, and subconsciously threw the polaroids into the tin with embarrassing hast, dashing at the tears caught on his lashes. He expected it to be Molly and panic immediately rose in his throat that she might see him like that, as fractured and unaware as she was, something he had so carefully hidden from her.

" _Oh_ – sorry, mate," Elvis whispered as he skidded to a halt at the threshold of the kitchen. Charles rolled his eyes immediately; he really shouldn't have been surprised to find that Elvis had commandeered their guest room again. Charles self consciously wiped at his eyes again and aggressively sniffed to try and clear signs of tears, but he knew it was too late for that. A polaroid or two had floated to the floor in his haste to hide them and his felt heat raise on the back of his neck as he immediately launched off his chair to retrieve them. Unfortunately, Elvis beat him to it with his quicker reflexes… and his relentless curiosity.

" _Oh_ , what are _you_ hiding?" Elvis goaded playfully, his usual tone.

"Nothing! Just private––." Anxiety ambushed his senses as he immediately attempted to snatch the private imagery back. This immediately was a mistake, he should have known, as it immediately became like a game of cat and mouse to Elvis with his childlike disposition for breaking rules. Elvis grinned, holding the paper above his head and jerking it just out of his friend's reach, despite the fact he had yet to even look at what he was holding. All he seemed to care about was the look of urgency on his friend's face and wanting to mess with him.

"Elvis, come on, you twat. Just give it back," he demanded nervously, lunging as best he could with his height and build, but his bastard of a friend was faster, throwing himself across the kitchen and behind the protection of the island so he could have a moment to look down at was it was he was even holding – the photograph of Molly, topless, on the subbed in Rome.

"What? _Oh_." His grin became wolfish, wicked with the sheer forbidden nature of what he'd found and the way it made his usually cool and regimented friend flush like a teenage girl. "Bloody 'ell, mate – _sorry_! I didn't realise I was interrupting––."

"I _wasn't––_ Must you treat everything like a fucking _joke_ ––," he snapped in a low, harsh voice, snatching the photograph back angrily. Immediately he flattened it, image hidden, against his chest, not wanting to open the tin in front of Elvis in case he took another peep. "Fucking _hell,_ Elvis, that's _Molly –_ my _wife,_ by the way! You can't just–– _"_

"––I'm _sorry_ , Charlie, really. I hardly thought––."

"––No, you never do, but it doesn't _stop_ you from acting before you think _every_ time, does it?" He snapped, though he immediately regretted his tone. Taking another sip of the scotch, he focused on the burning sensation as it warmed his throat. He settled back at the island with a sigh. "Sorry, that was uncalled for."

"No, no, you're alright," Elvis murmured, settling at his side with a friendly slap on his shoulder. "I shouldn't have…you know. It's your business. I know I can get carried away." Taking a long moment to look at his friend, who held the photo protectively against his body with his eyes cast down in bashful shame, dark circles shadowing his eyes, Elvis frowned. "Are you sure you're okay? Because you look like shit."

Charles opened his mouth, about to reply on complete autopilot, until he realised, quite shakily, that he _wasn't…_ and admitting that was the hardest. As it was, he didn't even have to say anything for Elvis to read this shift in realisation. A lump rose in his throat again, more painfully aching than the last, choking his ability to speak.

When he tried, his voice was small and broken.

"I miss her." The words came from nowhere and surprised them both, but once they escaped, Charles suddenly found he could not stop them. "I miss my wife." His words were stark and Elvis swallowed uncomfortably, a little confused, but knowing better than to speak. As it often did with many soldiers he knew, the silence drew out more truth from Charles than prying questions. If anything, the latter would made many a solider clam up.

"And I know it sounds mad," he carried on hurriedly, sniffing hard, "because she's right upstairs, but…" He scrubbed at his face, looking plagued by his thoughts. "God, I'm not sure I can even say it."

"It's okay," Elvis interjected automatically, placing a gentle hand back on his shoulder, trying to lighten his tone. "I ain't exactly gonna judge you, mate."

"I just…" He looked down at the tin under his hand and Elvis noticed the look of longing. "The woman who came in last night… _wasn't…_ my wife." His gaze was dipped, ashamed. "I've _never_ seen her so unlike herself––." He halted his own words, biting his lip as though to keep them in. "Fuck, it was terrifying." Elvis hummed in understanding, remembering how intimidating it was to see someone as strong as Molly so feeble and frightened. "Does that make me a _complete_ wanker? _Fuck_ , it does, doesn't it?"

" _No_ , mate," Elvis said, softly. "It makes you sound like a fucking _human being,_ which you seem determined to prove to the rest of the world you're not, I know – you always have. It's a relief to see proof of it, to be honest."

Charles hummed concomitantly in reply as he rubbed his eyes, long used to his friends descriptions of him as a robot with a stiff-upper lip that won't quit.

"You know what I think?" He continued, pouring Charles another measure. "I think… and I don't mean to be preachy because we both know I don't live on high ground, but you're just… _so_ lucky, both of you." Elvis' expression was suddenly so sad. "I had the love of my _life_ and I lost her, _all_ because I forgot about what matters. I got lost in my own _shit_ , my selfishness and forgot that magical relationships don't exist; they don't just _happen_ … They take work, they take traveling through hell and back again, _together,_ with truth and honesty, at the very least." He smiled with the same haunting look of melancholy, one which Charles could recall from a time long ago, when he first lost Lane. "I always remember the day you first introduced us to Molly at Mahiki's––."

"––You mean when she called you an 'Essex bloke in a Rupert's clothing'?"

They both sniggered, sharing a pleasant moment of nostalgia, both gazing into their glasses.

"You know, I never said but… I watched you and I just longed for what you two had."

Charles turned in surprise, his drink and his earlier tears momentarily forgotten. "I'm sorry, can I just get this on record that _Elvis Harte,_ Watford's answer to Casanova, is _jealous…_ of _me_?"

"Repeat it to anyone and I'll deny it!" Elvis threatened in a drawl. "It's just… I watched the way you spoke to one another, with that kind of blunt honesty, obviously, but also this… _tenderness_ that was fucking frightening to witness, to be honest – also a little disgusting."

Charles smirked. "I'm glad to hear it."

There was suddenly a long, pregnant pause, until he suddenly added: "I always thought what I had with Georgie was _it,_ you know, but watching you from the outside I just… I realised that I _could_ have had a real, proper love, _if_ I had just remembered how important it is to be _honest_ and not get scared and run off at the slightly mention of, well, anything… The kind of love you two _still_ _have,_ even after all the shit you've been dragged through. You two just… make it took easy, which is how it should be… because _loving_ is the easy part."

Charles was silent as the two of them seemed to focus their attentions on the tin beneath his hands as he finally pulled the polaroid away from his chest, still protecting sight of the image from his friend, he slipped it beneath the lid, sniffing hard.

"You'll get her back," Elvis said, cryptically with his usual confidence. "And when you do, we can look back and laugh about the time I came down and caught you perving over pictures of your wife in your kitchen." Elvis was pleased that his words rose a smirk on his friend's lips, the same old expression he often wore when he said something inappropriate that Charles' iron-clad moral compass would never let him laugh at aloud.

"Not that you'll believe me because your mind is as _perverse_ as they come, but I wasn't perving – I was reminiscing."

"Looking at polaroids of topless women in the middle of the night isn't perving?"

"Not _'_ topless _women',_ " Charles retorted with an intentional roll of his eyes. "Just one woman: my _wife…_ and they're not all––." He halted himself, thankfully, before he accidentally said too much, feeling his cheeks warm. "You know _what_ _–_ just fuck off, Elvis, alright?"

Elvis slipped from his stool with a smirk. " _Ah_ , 'course, so you can get back to your perving." He playfully nudged Charles head with her hand, knocking it to the left. "Seems like someone just really needs to get their leg––."

Charles clenched his jaw, telling himself not to rise to the bait. "Don't even _say_ it, Elvis – _on pain of death!_ "

Elvis was already sauntering towards the door with his usual cocky nonchalance. " _What––_? You _do_ though – for all our sakes – especially Molly's. You get all… _moody_ and sulky when you're not getting any. I should know – I had to live with it for _years_ after you stopped banging Rebecca––!"

 _"––Elvis!"_ Charles admonished him, the crude use of language making him cringe.

"God, I forgot what a woman you can be," Elvis grumbled aside as he then moved back into the room, moving back to his original point. "Honestly, I was so relieved to see you with a woman in Mahiki's that night – finally your permanent bad mood would be over––."

"Elvis. Shut up, _please_."

"I'm just _saying._ How long has it been? You're _obviously_ not getting any because you've got that look again."

Charles rose his eyebrows and placed his palms down on the table in a physical full stop. "We're not having this conversation––!"

"––Oh, come _on,_ Charlie _,_ " Elvis chortled, ignoring his evident distaste at the direction of the conversation. "How long?"

Charles sighed heavily, knowing there was no use refusing to answer because he Elvis would only continue to ask. He dripped his head as he did the maths, ashamed not only of the answer he came to but also that it took him all of two seconds to recall the answer. "Like, four months," he mumbled, feeling his cheeks run hot. "Maybe more if we're talking specifics."

A low, exaggerated whistle released through Elvis' teeth as he winced, sympathetically. " _Fuck_ , man, that's gotta be rough for you, 'cause you two were always like rabbits––."

Again, Charles gave his friend his best deadpan expression, unimpressed. "Oh, _my god,_ I don't even want to know how you know enough to come to that conclusion."

"Well, you're never exactly subtle. The amount of do's of your mothers where the two of you disappear and come back looking like you've been through a bush––."

Charles found himself shaking his head and grinning smugly, despite the slight blush still on his cheeks. He never had been one for locker-room talk. "Alright," he conceded, sipping his scotch as he felt a pang of longing for such simpler times. "I'll give you that." He sighed heavily again, rubbing over his brow hard as the longing swirled and seemed to multiply into an ache beneath his ribs. This shift into a morose melancholy must have slipped onto his features, because Elvis' smirking dissipated. Suddenly, he looked every bit the gentle and sympathetic friend again.

"You're right; I miss her… _that_ way, too." He grimaced a little, as though suddenly realising just how physically uncomfortable his body was at the very thought of his prolonged abstinence. "I haven't allowed myself to think about it until I just, well, found these photos and _now_ … Well, it's painful, I'll admit. Sex with Molly was also so–– _easy_." He mopped his hand over his curls, yanking at him as he cringed as he head himself say the words aloud to someone other than Molly. "And now it's…wrapped in all this… _shit!_ "

"What ' _shit_ '?" Elvis asked, throwing his hands up as though they were discussing furniture choices. "Rape, you mean?"

Charles' pulse leapt at the word, anxiety jolting his nerves. Immediately, his eyes shot to his friend in a glare, angered by his friend's insinuation that it wasn't worthy of making things complicated. " _Yes_ , strangely enough!" His response was hot and suddenly it spurred him into a rant. "She sees us _all_ as monsters now, all men – we all have penises, after all – the very weapon that one man used to _hurt_ her in a way that makes me want to throw up." His breathing had increased again as he knocked back his drink. "I mean, _can we blame her,_ for thinking half the world is now capable of–– _that––_ and only wants her for one thing––?." His struggle for words meant he ultimately stopped trying, bowing his head to hide his emotions as they once again threatened to materialise. "Add to that that I can't stop _seeing it._ Instead of Lane, being manhandled by Al Shabaab in my memory?" He paused dramatically, watching Elvis' face shift to one of shock, as he had been unaware, Charles suddenly realised, of Lane's being assaulted by the militants. "Yeah, well, it my dreams, it's Molly… and they don't stop at ripping her clothes––." The silence was oppressive as he momentarily dwelled on his own internalised anxiety, deep-seated fear that she might not ever want him, that way, again.

" _Fuck_ , man..." Elvis felt useless, he too now haunted as his mind, inevitably, began picturing the horror of such a mental image happening to woman _he_ loved. "I think you really need to talk to her about this."

"How can I _ever––?_ How will she ever _not_ think about it whenever we…?" He sniffed hard, banishing his tears. "After what happened to her, there's no way I can expect her to––."

" _Expect?_ No, _idiot_ , of course not _expect_ ," Elvis scoffed, pushing a hand into his hair and sniggering at his friend as though he had completely missed some extremely obvious point. "But perhaps just… _ask?_ "

The words were so simple but it was as though they struck a match in Charles' mind, as he suddenly rotated on his stool to stare intently at his friend in fascination. To expect sex of Molly would be to assume a position of arrogance, a position of entitlement… but to simply, without judgement or expectation, _ask_ her? He hadn't even considered it somehow, until now, but suddenly it seemed sensible to do, to treat her as an equal, a human being… and, most importantly, to not let her be diminished as nothing but a victim without agency.

"It can't hurt to remind her why you'll never be like that monster… _'Don't ask, don't get'_ and all that," Elvis cooed in a singsong voice as he left, parting with a look of amusement over his shoulder. Charles remained behind and decided to do what an Officer of Her Majesty's Army did best and got got to work, laying out a plan for how best to remind Molly of who they were… and who they could still be, with some healing. He only narrowly managed to shrug off the innate irritation at having to admit, even to himself, that Elvis just might be right.


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: Hello all - just to let you know I have been getting your reviews and I promise, even though there are big gaps between chapters, it's because I'm always working on it - or trying to at least._

 _This is the first of a difficult few chapters to write, despite the fact they contain some much needed fluff, so I hope you guys approve. Please do let me know if you have any suggestions / feedback / things you want me to cover, because I always have issues seeing the bigger picture – and also constantly feel like I'm struggling to write Charles, so any advice on that would be much appreciated!_

 _If you're extra nice to me, there may be a generous surprise for y'all in store..._

* * *

 _"I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia.  
_ _Anything, just to get rid of this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind.  
Did he rape my head, too?"_

 **― Laurie Halse Anderson, " _Speak"_**

* * *

 **XXVIII**

 **Renaissance (Part I)**

* * *

Molly still felt as though she was moving through a fog, even after a long twelve hours of being knocked out by sleeping pills. She wasn't sure which ended up being more traumatic, having to go to Charles' solicitor – now _hers,_ she had to remind herself _–_ or the fact that she had lost herself entirely, in the end, to panic. It had all suddenly become too real, too fast. When had she become _this_ person, a _victim,_ who had to go through one of the most serious kind of Court Marshals? A woman who the _newspapers_ were writing about? A woman Charles seemed frightened to be himself with?

The latter point rang true when she awoke that morning, as he wasn't beside her. Something deep in her stomach dropped and somehow she found she wasn't even surprised to find his side of the sheets were long cold. She was filled with shame and embarrassment as she tried to remember the events of the previous evening and found that she struggled to. All she knew was the fear; it was not something she was likely to forget… nor the look on Charles' face when he had held her under the stray of the shower while she had been too dizzy and detached to move.

She had never felt so close to death than in that moment, teetering on the knife's edge between complete cognitive and physical unraveling and being all too aware of her own fear.

When she finally plucked up the courage to make her way into the kitchen where she could hear Charles pottering, she felt strangely like she did that very first morning at Royal Crescent – so very out of place and unsure.

"There she is!" he greeted warmly, only just turning to her as he kept one eye on the eggs he was poaching. His tone was already too bright and too keen compared to his usual low and demure morning gravel, which told her all she needed to know about how he was feeling. Insecurity was always his mask.

She moved toward him quietly and chose to distract herself by putting the kettle on, greeting him with a tired hum. She pretended not to feel his eyes on her as she moved as she waited until she was ready to look him in the eye, feeling strangely shy and on edge. Thankfully, he didn't push her, simply asking her jokingly if she wanted avocado, (and knowing she hated it). She wrinkled her nose in disgust and only then did she catch his eye, an easy chuckle falling out of him as his question had the desired effect, having roused a reaction out of her.

He looked as exhausted as she felt, but the smile of his mouth stood out rather unnervingly as a stark juxtaposition. It didn't skip her notice how his eyes were puffy in the way they only ever where when he had been rubbing them… which he only ever did after he had been crying.

She had to bite her lip from wanting to cry with the guilt at the very thought that her situation had brought him to that, crying alone while she slept. Instead, she swallowed her own tears down and moved to help him get out the plates, deliberately moved into his personal space – a silent indicator to him not to be anxious with touching her. She smiled at him, though the expression was brittle, and pressed a tender and casual kiss on his cotton-clad bicep, as it was all she could reach at her natural height. Immediately, his expression softened to one she recognised as a genuine look of gratitude and endearing surprise, as he halted in his breakfast preparations to pull her into him for a cuddle and a long kiss to the crown of her head.

"How you feeling?" He murmured against her hair, keeping tight hold of her body, for which she appreciated.

She grumbled nonsensically and didn't look up at him, instead looking past him. It was only then she noticed the central charging port for the house phone was disconnected completely.

"Wha' happened? You frightened the thing will blow up?" she joked, taking a step back to see his face. She watched as the look of discomfort crossed his face, as though there was something that he didn't want to tell her.

" _What_? What is it?"

He cleared his throat, a sign of awkwardness in him, and reached up smooth a seemingly imaginary strand of hair behind her ear.

"The bloody press," he shrugged, trying to offer her a smile, but he must have been able to see the nauseating worry that rolled her stomach at the idea that yet more journalists had found the story.

" _Fuck_ ," she whispered, grabbing onto the counter for support. " _How_? How are they even allowed to print who I am? And what about _you––_ your career, too––." She tried to flee, rushing to the window to peep through the partially closed shutters to see if she could see any journalists, but thankfully, the story obviously wasn't a big enough deal for anyone to be camping on their doorstep.

"––Don't you dare worry about me," he interrupted, following her to take a hold of her body before she could panic, wrapping her in the tight hold of his arms in a stress hold that she knew was designed to keep her from getting worked up. "You're going to be okay. The media is fickle – they'll be onto a new story but this afternoon."

Molly didn't believe him, but appreciated his attempts to offer her appeasement.

"Do you think maybe you should call Doctor Kahn…? Maybe have a session?"

Molly groaned miserably against the soft wool of his jumper, inhaling the comforting lingering scent of his aftershave. "If I promise to cuddle you all day instead, can I just… _not?"_

Charles hummed against her ear, a warm and delicious sound that made her stomach turn over. "As much as I would love that, and I _do_ give wonderful cuddles, I'm not sure it would be quite as effective as a psychologist."

So that is how she ended up at Doctor Kahn's office for an emergency appointment that afternoon, giving in to Charles' gentle prodding. He drove her the short distance to the clinic, calming her anxiety about running into any journalists, and then gave her the rather suspicious look of excitement, telling her that he would be picking her up afterward… and that he then had a surprise for her.

 _"A wha'?"_ She grinned as her hand poised on the handle of the passenger door, as she momentarily forgot her churning stomach caused at this very idea of going back into Mr. Kahn's office. "Nah, you never!"

Charles whispered out a laugh, pressing a kiss to her brow. "I decided that I think what we need is just a night to just be _us,_ you know? So, that's what we're doing." Then, suddenly, his expression turned, as it always did when he was nervous.

No, not _nerves_ , she realised in a moment of epiphany, but _self doubt._

It was a strangely reassuring thing to see such a familiar expression on the face of someone who was usually so sure.

"We don't have to," he rushed suddenly, nearly falling over the words. "I just figured we haven't even been for a _dinner_ in––."

She couldn't keep herself from grinning all of a sudden. "––Oh shut it, you soft _tosspot_! ' _Course_ I'd love a surprise!"

The smile he gave her in response was almost enough to propel her through another session being psychoanalysed.

 _Almost._

"So, this episode, this panic episode you had, how did it feel, compared to the last, the one in that happened to you in the gym?"

Molly glumly sat looking at her hands, unwilling to drudge up the memories. "Well, this one only happened 'cause some poor bugger put his hand on my back to move me out the way––but the last one was––more–– _less––violent_ , I guess?" She blushed, embarrass by her bumbling and lack of ability to understand what she was trying to say. "Sorry, I ain't sure I understand it enough to even know how to explain."

"There's no need to apologise," Doctor Kahn assured in his best, soft voice, taking a moment before she posed a question. "Are you familiar with the term _Rape Trauma Syndrome_? It's often referred to as 'RTS' in most articles that you may have come across it in."

Molly's stomach tightened, feeling so very out of place. "Maybe somewhere, but I got to say, it weren't ever something I thought I would ever have to focus on too much, in my job… Not _then_ , anyway."

"Well, it's a relatively simple theory, really," she began explaining, ever diligent. "A founding idea is that rape disrupts normal physical, emotional behaviours; that it essentially causes psychological trauma."

Molly couldn't help herself as she snorted out a cynical laugh. "Yeah, well, ain't that a given?"

"Well, _yes_ , to those who have experienced it, it's been clear since the dawn of time… But to medical science? This paper kind of put it all down in one place and gave a name – and therefore a voice I suppose – to the specific form of post-traumatic stress that accompanies someone violating your body." Molly frowned, trying her best to keep up. "The theory outlines that there are three stages to the trauma a rape survivor goes through and our job is to work out which you are in… and how best to help you move through to the third and final 'renormalisation stage'. Do you understand?"

Molly manage a nod, choosing not to speak.

"Now, the first stage, the 'acute stage', is the immediate phase, what you described as happening to you in the days after the rape occurred and Charles was kidnapped. No one person's immediate reactions are the same, which is important to remember."

"Like what?"  
"Well, usually women fall into one of three types: 'expressive' with their emotions – i.e. they appear agitated and hysterical, crying spells, etcetera; 'controlled' – no emotion and asserting that 'everything is fine'; or they become 'disbelieving' – they have difficulty concentrating or even doing every day tasks and a poor recall of assault."

Molly tried her best to absorb this information, and, typically to her nature, silently began obsessing as to which group _she_ belonged to… and which others would say she belonged to. Frightfully, she almost felt like she belonged to all three.

"An' the other two stages?"

"The second is referred to as the 'Outward Adjustment Stage' and essentially covers the period afterward, when survivors seem to have resumed their normal lives, but usually fall into maladaptive coping strategies."

"An' which am I now?"

Doctor Kahn smiled. "Well, that's what we have to work on. It seems to me that the panic you experienced last night sets you fall into the second phase. Tell me; up until the panic episodes in the last few days, would you say you've been resuming 'ordinary' life? How are things with Captain James?"

Molly chewed her lip, her longterm nervous tick, but smirked at the use of his title. "'e's been… wonderful," she sighed. "But just as things feel normal, _I_ suddenly feel _wrong_ again."

"You feel 'wrong'? Could you explain what you mean by that?"

"I guess I just feel… _tainted._ " She rubbed her eyes, as an excuse to look away. "Not good enough for 'im."

"The first time we met, you described that you once felt intimidated by him when your relationship was new, because you felt he was too different a class… and because you felt he was 'too handsome' for you. _'I don't know why he still puts up with me, but I'm grateful',_ I believe you said."

Molly shrugged, feeling her cheeks warm at the idea that she actually recalled verbatim of her verbal ramblings. "Well, _yeah_." She suddenly felt foolish, hearing it from someone else's lips. "It's the truth, innit."

"You feel this way, now, after what has happened?"

"No disrespect, but is that even a question?" She couldn't help but laugh sardonically. "I feel useless. I'm a nervous wreck. I feel even _less_ worthy of him. I haven't been able to sleep without him with me since we got back, I hate the dark now – not to mention trying anything _else_ with him _—_."

" _'Anything else'_?" She echoed, as was her habit. "By that I'm assuming you are referring to physical intimacy?"

Molly, inevitably, squirmed under such a description. "I… _tried_ ," she shared before she could even stop herself. "But he... he said he couldn't… _you know._ "

Molly expected Doctor Kahn to balk at this, or at least react, but as it was, she seemed unsurprised. "That's interesting, though not uncommon. I remember we discussed your nerves around being touched before… What made you decide to try?"

"I was…" She swallowed, suddenly feeling annoyance at herself as she pushed out her words, impatient. "I was _bored_ of being this version of me, the version who is scared and… _deprived_."

"Sudden loss of marital intimacy can be hard," Doctor Kahn assured.

"But it just all went to shit," she mumbled. "I thought, I don't know _why_ I thought, but I thought that maybe if I tried one of them aphrodisiac teas and got meself… _in the mood,_ " she cringed a little at the topic, "then maybe it would just suddenly be like to used to be… and finally be easier to _forget_."

"And did he explain to you why he could not reciprocate your sexual advances?"

Molly picked at an imaginary lint on her trouser leg. "He said he couldn't, um… 'cause he'd feel like he was taking advantage of me."

Doctor Kahn was unnervingly quiet for a long moment and Molly could feel her eyes on her, until suddenly she prompted: "And?"

Molly found herself playing dumb. "Hm? ' _And_ ', wha'?"

"While it _is_ common for a survivor of rape's significant other or partner can feel…hesitant about resuming intimacy after an assault, what I think is more worth discussing here is why you felt the need to try and inebriate yourself in order to do it."

Molly smiled, nervously. "I would happily discuss, Doctor Kahn, but I ain't got a clue what that last word meant."

"You say you drank an aphrodisiac in an attempt to try and forget," she explained, unfazed. "That in itself is an entirely understandable justification, but in itself is an example of the 'Outward Adjustment Stage'. You're attempting to resume your normal life, but doing so by forcing yourself into a position by taking an aphrodisiac? Perhaps implies that you weren't actually quite ready, so you were just trying to force yourself into sex as a coping strategy."

"So… I am stuck in Phase Two?"

"Well, not necessarily, these things are fluid. It certainly sounds like you were on the evening we just mentioned, but did something change? I notice you spoke of it as though the feeling the need for aphrodisiacs to get over your fear only happened once?"

The fierce blush on Molly's face must have given her away, because Doctor Kahn dark eyes suddenly seemed to shine knowingly.

"He… We…managed to do _some_ stuff – after we'd had a bit of a domestic about it all though, 'course… and after that I wasn't so worried about not being able to… _feel_ like that again."

"This 'domestic' you describe…?"

"Oh, god, it was a bloody _palaver_ … I shouldn't have pushed him. He told me 'no' and, just like I _always_ do, I wouldn't have it, would I? And then suddenly he was angry, like really shouty angry, and he told me that he was only doing it all because he was trying to look after me and that he wasn't just my sex toy, he was my husband, and that he had feelings too. It was awful and I felt so disgusting at the very idea I made him feel even a tiny bit as shit as I feel all the time knowing someone didn't listen to me about my body."

Doctor Kahn smiled. "It's good that you came to that conclusion though, Molly, and it's good he was honest with you, even if it did cause temporary hurt. That's what you both need in these situations: complete transparency. That way, trust can build again."

"It was never that I didn't trust him... I just didn't trust _me_ not to freak out... Just the idea of something being inside me..." She shuddered, the phantom of her former captain feeling as though it passed over her grave. "So I thought, if I weren't sober, at least then I'd be less likely to lose my head and upset him."

"While it is admirable that you don't wish to upset him, it's not your responsibility to worry about how your feelings affect him; not only is it a fools errand, as your true feelings will always come out eventually, but it's important that you don't bottle it up or you will never properly be able to move on." Doctor Kahn wrote something on her notepad.

"I just... I _can't_ hurt him," Molly sighed, pressing the heels of her palms into her eye sockets. "He's the best thing that ever bloody happened to me and... he don't deserve this. He has shit of his own he ain't dealing with and here I am, having panic attacks and loading mine on top – and now the newspapers have found out that I may have been asbused by my CO and now. I could be to blame for getting him loads of shit – _sorry,_ trouble – because, well, y'know what the bloody Army's like."

"Have you been being harassed by these journalists?"

"One came to the door," she explained, "the other day, from some small, local paper, asking if I lived there because they got wind that I may have reported my CO for assault – and one left me a voicemail… and now, Charles' had to take the phone of the hook."

Doctor Kahn hummed, sympathetically. "I'm sorry to hear that. Have you told your Liaison Officer?" Molly shook her head, the thought never having crossed her mind. "Either way, Molly, just try not to let it distress you too much. Try to stay away from social media and, with any luck, it should become disinteresting to them as quickly as they picked it up." Molly gnawed her lip, unsure. "Does it give you anxiety because your peers in the Army may find out?"

Molly snorted, sardonically. "Just a smidge, I s'pose."

"May I ask you to explain why?"

Annoyance stoked in her gut. "Because it ain't any of their _business_? Because I don't want that to be all they see when they look at me? Because the Army is a fucking _village_ and it will be all I'm known for amongst all the men who already think I'm weaker for the rest of my career?" She wanted to be sick. "And that's only if I _win._ If I _lose?_ If he's let _off?_ " Her mouth was dry, her hands clammy, as she shivered despite the warmth of the room. "Well, ain't no way I could stay in anymore."

There was a long moment of quiet as Doctor Kahn wrote in her notes and Molly found herself wishing shed refused to come – she felt more anxious now than she had when she'd woken up that morning.

"I think what would really help you would be for us to go through some calming exercises – some of which you may be familiar with of course. How does that sound?"

Reluctantly, Molly agreed.

"Have you tried discussing with Captain James how you feel? It seems you're obviously harbouring a lot of anxiety that only manages to get out in bursts – anxiety attacks, if you will."

She had a point there. "No…not since the first night he was rescued," Molly sighed, meekly. "I mean, I've tried, but it feels like he doesn't really know what to say, because how can he really understand? And when it comes to the topic of sex, well, it ain't really come up since I tried and failed that time."

"Don't you think perhaps it is worth another try? How was he to you this morning, considering your panic attack?"

"I don't know," Molly worried, chewing her lip. "From what I can remember, he held me all through it – put me in the shower and wouldn't leave me… But this morning, he was pulling that smile face he makes when he doesn't want me to see he's fragged about somethin', but I could tell he'd been crying while I was asleep because her eyes were all puffy."

"And that bothers you." Doctor Kahn sat still for a moment, thinking. "Though, that is exactly what you described _you_ do to keep _your_ emotions from upsetting _him._ " Molly felt her stomach drop, suddenly understanding. "Do you see the irony?"

Molly's lower lip jutted out as she tried her best not to sulk. "Never was very good with irony," she mumbled, sounding like a moody teenager but too wrapped up in trying her best to digest everything to care.

"Both of you seem to spend an awful lot of energy trying to shield the other from emotions that you perceive might upset them," she observed aloud, "which is really just a form of repression. It's hard, but I think you need to release yourself of your feelings. Have you thought of keeping a diary?"

Molly frowned, bemused. "There weren't really chance in me' Mum's council house because it was so full of little bleeders who'd just read it… Plus, I ain't good with words, really. I barely got any GCSE's!"

Doctor Kahn watched her carefully. "You're very open about that, but also you expressed before that you used to fight with Charles over him trying to teach you things…" She paused with her pen against her cheek. "I think he always saw in you what I see now, which is you may lack the schooling, but you are more than capable once you put your mind to something."

Molly flushed under the praise, her eyes down.

"You're not writing for it to ever be read, so you needn't worry about what you write – I think it's just important that you don't let the words fester."

Inwardly, Molly wanted to roll her eyes, because she thought it incredibly unlikely that should would get round to putting pen to paper. She managed to say nothing, just about. "As for Charles, I think you both need to sit down, back to back if it helps, so you don't have to worry about feeling uncomfortable, and just try and let the other in on your fears... You might find that sex and intimacy doesn't feel so frightening once you realise you both have the same fears, hm?"

"'Suppose so," Molly mumbled, quietly ashamed to have not seen it herself.

Later, when Charles came to pick her up, he seemed as equally quiet and apprehensive as he had that morning, all hidden behind a false smile. She took one look at him and suddenly couldn't help but lunge over the centre console to hug him as tight as she could, seeing now that all those false smiles only meant he was trying to protect her. Her earlier uncomfortable nervousness dissipated, leaving only an all too familiar yearning for him, to be close to him... and a renewed vigour to remind him how much she appreciated him.

"Oof!" Charles grunted with a laugh at her sudden assault, momentarily stunned into not returning her embrace. "Well, then," he chuckled. "Hello to you, too!"

She squeezed him even tighter, her eyes suddenly pricking with the treat of sudden tears. "Hi," she murmured against his jumper-clad shoulder.

"Hi," he murmured back, his voice suddenly just as soft. By now, he was returning her embrace with a tender kiss to the side of her face and a squeeze around her waist, though he still rather bemused. It was such a stark contract from her reaction to him that morning that he found he wasn't sure how to digest it. She pressed her face into the skin of his neck that was exposed at his collar, her lashes tickling him and making him want to squirm in his seat.

"Are you okay? Sweetheart?"

She finally let him go enough for him to see her face and was surprised to find a soft smile on her face, rather than the upset grimace he had been expecting.

"Yeah," she said gently, reaching to stroke his face, the slight dark bristle on his skin tickling her palm. "I think I am, actually." Suddenly, she couldn't contain a strangely random burst of enthusiasm, though she tried to guard it, for fear of looking ridiculous.

As per his promise, he wouldn't tell her where he was taking her, though it soon became clear to her through familiar roadsigns alone that they were headed into Bath. She couldn't help herself as a barrage of questions fell from her lips, speaking over Charles' attempts to sing along, annoyingly beautifully despite his deliberate obnoxiousness, to Smooth radio.

"Do quiet down, Dawesy, for you will get no clues from me and you're interrupting a classic."

Molly snorted unattractively and swiped his arm, which was extended over the central console so he could hold her hand; longstanding habits die hard, she supposed. "Bloody hell, I forget what an old fogey you are, sometimes." He went to take offence, his mouth open in mock outrage, but she was sniggering still. "Y'sure you shouldn't have become spokesperson for _Smooth & Grey FM _or whatever instead of a shouty Captain?"

His quick reflexes meant his fingers swiped at her waist in a violent and sudden movement that roused a squeal out of her. He somehow always managed to know just where to tickle her, even one handed… and while driving.

"Stop it, you prannet! You _know_ I hate it when you–– _and_ _put two hands on the bloody wheel,_ for gods sake _!"_ Her protests were loud, but they both knew they were half-hearted, as measured by just how much she was laughing through her words. His laughter, mixed in with the swirls of his favourite 80's music, drowned out her protests. It was such a beautiful sound, she soon forgot all about them. She turned up the radio, mostly to keep him asking questions, but also to keep him singing. She loved it when he felt free enough to sing.

Molly felt her stomach twirl with anticipation as they arrived at none other than the hotel where they had their wedding, the beautiful Georgian architecture achingly familiar.

Immediately, her heart leapt and she snapped her head round to look to him questioningly.

"Wha––Charles, why are we here? Is this the surprise?"

He winked at her, revealing nothing, smirking as he brought the car to a halt. He opened his door, the valet already waiting eagerly for him to give up the drivers seat. He raised himself out of the car, throwing his head back in beckoning. "Come along!"

She followed along, bewildered, as he pulled his military holdall from the boot, followed by hers, which was immediately taken from hum by the bellboy in the foyer. He grinned at her as he practically bound up to the reception, squeezing her hand.

"Charles––," she attempted, gently, strangely apprehensive.

"–– _Shh_ , all will be revealed," he hushed, willing her with his excited eyes to trust him and, of course, she did. He checked them in as she watched curiously, before leading her to the lift.

"So…" She drawled as they got into the lift, holding onto his hand with both of hers, needy for contact with him even more than usual.

"So, I know how much you love hotels," he began, tilting his face toward to look directly into her eyes.

"So you _do_ listen?" she swiped humorously, wrinkling her nose at him.

" _And,"_ he continued, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly at being interrupted, "I was wondering if you'd like to go on a date tonight." Suddenly he looked bashful again, as though doubting his idea. "You know, just you and me."

Molly could see herself giving him a toothy smirk in the mirrored glass wall, amused, if also a little endeared, at the sight of Charles feeling unsure of himself.

"A date, _here_?" She had to admit, she was a little confused. Yes, they got married here, but she wasn't sure it was really the kind of place for a date…

" _Yes,_ here," he said, suddenly unfazed again, leading her out of the lift with his holdall over his shoulder. He leads her down a corridor she didn't recognise and she was about to fire a needless, sassy comment in his direction, but the words died on her lips at the sight of the room that greeted them. It wasn't quite the honeymoon suite she remembered, but it wasn't too dissimilar. The bedroom lead into an open-plan living area, which had been rearranged so that instead a personally laid dinner table for two in the middle the room.

" _Oh_ ," she exhaled, looking around at the beautiful softly lit interior before turning to find Charles watching her apprehensively.

"I just thought… Well, you've been uncomfortable in rooms filled with people recently and so it might be better if we have… a romantic dinner for two…without any worry about anyone else being around at all."

She seemed to have lost her words, her earlier bubbling energy at the sight of him seeming to suddenly invert, as she was overwhelmed by how much he had evidently considered her. She knew he deemed hotels to be nothing special and much preferred to be a homebody; that historically he had _loved_ going out to fancy restaurants not only because he could feel like he was spoiling her, but also because, in his words, it allowed him to 'feel the high of just being seen with her' when she was dressed up all nice.

Therefore, the very idea he had chosen _this,_ to stay within the considered relative security and normality of a hotel room, told her that he recognised her new fears… and respected her enough to yield to them – for now at least. She could hardly remember having told him half of her fears aloud, and yet, in that moment, it felt as though he understood at least enough of that which she had been trying to motivate herself to put into words.

" _Fuck_ , Charles," she breathed, breathless with the honour and inadequacy she felt simultaneously. "I don't know what to say, 'cept," she moved to sit down on the bed, "Well, I ain't sure I bloody deserve ya'."

He immediately settled beside his, his hands between his knees. " _Nope_ ," he declared defiantly, making them both break into wide smiles. "Sorry, but that's bollocks." She shook her head at him as they both allowed gentle chuckled to escape them, falling into a, now all too familiar, impasse. "You deserve a proper date, so thats what you've got." Reaching behind him, he pulled the holdall toward them and began unloading clothes, clothes she recognised as her own. "I packed some stuff that I know you like, I hope you don't mind. I didn't want to ruin the surprise."

He sounded nervous, but as usual, he had little reason to be. The clothes he had chosen for her, at a glance, were perfectly fitting. Not too fancy, but definitely enough for a dinner date. He had even packed her make up bag and necessary toiletries, including tampons, which made her smile, though she was pleased to realise she no longer needed them. Wrinkling her nose, she leaned in and puckered her lips and playfully pecked his lips.

"I ain't sure if it should be worrying how well you know ya' missus' wardrobe, mate."

The slight rigidity in his expression relaxed immediately as he laughed, reaching forward and trying to grab her playfully as she hurried out of his reach and in the direction of the bathroom. Somehow, he managed to swipe her behind with his hand, rousing a minuscule squeal of surprise from the back of her throat.

She dumped the holdall in the bathroom and pulled out the silky deep mustard coloured wrap-around dress, hanging it on the back of the door. She could hear Charles turning on the news in the other room and smiled to herself at how ever predictable he was. She began rummaging through what else he had packed, but found herself faltering at the sight of some of her best underwear, laying, perfectly folded of course, in the bottom.

The idea that Charles had packed it made her flush like a teenager and it felt all of a sudden as though she wasn't a grown married woman, but her old, silently anxious teenage self. She gnawed her lower lip as she sunk to sit down on the toilet seat, holding the delicate garments between her fingers, all soft pastel colours and embroidered flowers, finding herself wondering if this was Charles' silent way of asking her if she was ready to finally restart their physical intimacy. If so, part of her was ruffled at the thought, as it would be incredibly presumptuous of him… but _then again_ , she gently reminded herself, it was also very _careful_ of him, and well within his rights to do.

He could have put her on the spot, quizzed her, pushed her to 'be ready', but instead of making them both uncomfortable, he left her a hint instead. He really was a stiff Rupert through and through in that respect.

The Molly James who bought this particular intimate set was a woman in the entanglements of the honeymoon period, thrilled by the secret love affair she had found herself embroiled in with a _grown_ man whom she couldn't help but marvel at for his intellect and his quiet adoration for those he kept in his little circle. She had wanted to impress him, she remembered, but more than that, she had wanted to feel sensual, since the sensation was so new to her then and it empowered her like a burning fire in her chest.

She envied that woman now, for the ease with which she could feel so confident knowing what her husband wanted… and in what she, herself, wanted.

The new Molly couldn't seem to straighten out her thoughts long enough to pinpoint exactly what her desires were… but she knew, stroking the silk, that she didn't want to be beaten. She wouldn't be beaten.

So, she stood, locking the door, and began stripping in front of the large expanse of mirrors at the sink. She hadn't looked at herself naked properly since this entire thing began and, strangely, she found herself holding her breath as the last of her practical underwear fell to the ground. The woman looking back at her was familiar, right down to the tattoos on her arm, wrist, shoulder and the most recent one hidden intimately just under the curve of her left breast. The latter two were for the most important men to have ever existed in her life: a tiny white Smurf that on her shoulder in memory of her dear, dear friend… and the curled script of Charles' hand that read ' _Ditto_ ' beneath her breast, the one word that came to symbolise all they could originally never say.

For some reason, she had half expected for the sight of herself not to be familiar. She sight of herself without the bruising on her thighs she remembered with a sigh of relief, but she no longer looked at herself and saw the woman Charles thought was sexy. She couldn't imagine feel that deep-seated confidence that once came second nature to her when she was naked, which was a panic-inducing realisation. Not to mention the fact she had not properly shaved in a week and therefore felt self conscious at the sight of her natural hair growth starting to become a little unruly.

Sitting down on the toilet, she stared back at the lingerie in her hands and sighed frustratedly, throwing it down onto the floor. Suddenly, it felt symbolic of all the pressure she was putting on herself by trying to compare herself to the the Old Molly, whom never knew this kind of intimate trauma that now felt like it was stained, indelibly, in her memory.

With a final huff of indignation, she rose and began, defiantly, applying some make up, enjoying the ritual of doing so. She didn't wear make up often, and she knew Charles didn't care too much for it as an Army man, but she liked it, sometimes. She liked the sense of armour it gave her.

Time passed quickly when one concentrated on mastering the perfect cut-crease eyeshadow effect and lathered oneself in complimentary body lotion, so Molly soon lost track. She grumbled at the sight of the dark hair growth on her shins and the itchy long stubble under her arms. Thankfully, she always kept a travel razor in her wash bag, and she slowly, diligently, began to shave. She looked at herself in the mirror and sighed at the thought of attempting the incredibly awkward logistical challenge of the most intimate kind of grooming. Perhaps she was just being lazy, she considered, but she couldn't help herself. The older she got, the more resentful she found that she was at the idea that she _should_ shave down god-knows-where, rather than because she wanted to, all because it was what 'society', polite women did for their husbands.

Well, her body was _hers_ , and she decided then and there that, beyond trimming as she liked, she would not allow herself to feel shame over such trivial things anymore.

She dried herself off and stood, looking at the underwear on the floor and felt herself stirred into spontaneity by defiance. In a move of swift decision, she pulled the dress down from its hanger, slipping her arms into the sleeves and tying a row around the waist of the wrap dress. The silk against her entirely bare skin was wondrous, the fabric brushing her freshly shaved shins as her thigh peeped through the split. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and was pleased with what she saw. She'd certainly never worn this dress without a bra before, much less without any underwear whatsoever, but she suddenly realised how much more comfortable and empowering it was to _choose_ not to wear such things.

Now at least, if Charles tried it on with her, he would soon have his answer… by way of easy access.


	29. Chapter 29

_This is Part II... surprise!_

* * *

 **XXIX**

 **Renaissance (Part II)**

* * *

 _"For this entire walk, my desire had ashamed me, as if my wanting to be kissed that night mitigated the fault of [the man's] sudden deafness.I'd been given stacks of reasons to blame myself for an act of violence committed by another.I had blamed my flirting for his subsequent college taught me: my rape was my I'd trusted asked only what I might have done to let it my gut, I'd always believed I'd caused it. I finally questioned it."_

 **― Aspen Matis, " _Girl in the Woods: A Memoir"_**

* * *

Suddenly there was the sound of a muffled knock at the hotel door, rousing her from her fidgeting.

" _Charles?_ " She called hoping to rouse him to answering the door, swiping under her eye to try and catch a minuscule fleck of mascara. However, she was surprised to find there was no response. She frowned and as the knocking persisted again, she groaned in annoyance and opened up the bathroom door, watching to the hotel door in her dress and bare feet.

Peeking through the spy hole, she balked at this sight of Charles standing, patiently, at the threshold. She opened the door immediately, slowly, frowning in bemusement.

"Wha' you doing out here, you nut-bar?"

Charles looked smug with his surprise in his immaculate suit, though she didn't miss the way he stalled momentarily at the sight of her dressed up and it made her cheeks hot.

"I'm here for our dinner date, of course." He leaned forward and kissed her cheek tenderly in greeting. "Good evening, Mrs. James." He leaned back just enough to rake his eyes over her again. She didn't miss the way his gaze lingered on her subtle cleavage before settling back on her face. "I must say, you're looking utterly delectable."

She wanted to roll her eyes, but she found she couldn't look away from the heat of his eyes, twinkling at her in amusement. Instead, she felt her cheeks flush like a schoolgirl again at his compliment, but she refused to look away despite her self consciousness. She boldly rose her eyebrow and took his hand, pushing her fluttering, giddy self down inside. "Thanks," she accepted, gently. "I'm assuming that word you just said means a good thing?"

His smile stretched into a grin. "A very good thing." He then pulled a bouquet of tea roses from behind his back, causing her to make a very inelegant noise of surprise. "For you, my darling."

The pet name made her smirk as it made his sound ridiculously posh, but she secretly loved it, because people from where she was from didn't sound a thing like that when they said that word. He made it sound like a precious thing to be called.

As he lead her back into the room, she was poised to make a job about it, but found she forgot all about her humour at the sight that greeted her: the entire open plan suite was decorated with tea lights and the table was set, a champagne bucket beside.

"Fucking 'ell, Charles!" She was breathless in her happiness, overwhelmed by it, as she stalled in the middle of the room, still barefoot on the carpet. "You didn't have to do all this!"

"I know," he said softly, ushering her towards the table before pulling out her chair for her. "But I wanted to. Tonight's just for you."

He meant it, too. The food that was beneath the metal domes, all ready to eat, was scrumptious, but more than that, he kept her talking, chatting to her about Sam's latest messages and stories of his parents' travels while they'd been away. She found she slowly forgot about the worries she had been permanently carrying around, only realising their weight once it had been eased from burdening her shoulders. She listened to the gentle, warm cadence of his voice and gradually stopped eating altogether, too distracted for an appetite. She bubbles of the champagne tickled her nose as she sipped and she thrived on the slight flush of Dutch courage they gave her. In this light, it struck her as it often did how handsome her husband was, especially when he was mid-storytelling. His eyes looked like warm whiskey in this light as he gestured with his nimble hands in midair. She was distracted at the thought of their strength and their delicacy when he ran them over her body...

At such a thought, her body suddenly shot to attention and suddenly she was all too aware that she was dressed in nothing but a silk dress the tied around the waist. She could feel her body beginning to react to the racy nature of her thoughts and she tried her very best to keep her focus on what he was saying, but the moment her calf brushed his under the table, she abandoned all hope.

"Sorry," she apologised automatically at the unexpected contact, which made him stop short and pause, the recounting of his mother's latest misunderstanding with an elephant in India forgotten. "I din' mean to footsie ya'."

"Don't be sorry," he replied nonchalantly, taking a hold of her hand on the table. "You can play footsie with me as much as you like, Molly, and you know it."

He was giving her that look all of a sudden, the very same one she remembered littering her with the most delicious jitters on their very first date – only this time, it didn't last. He looked away, down at their hands, as though what he was doing was inappropriate. So, she did what Molly Dawes did best and she pushed.

She grazed his trouser-clad calf most deliberately this time with her bare foot and refused to look away, enjoying the sudden feeling of power exchange between them.

"Charles," she implored gently, her turn to squeeze _his_ hand. "Look at me."

When he did, he was apprehensive, but he smiled easily as she tenderly caressed the tendons and outstanding veins that stood out like some kind if intimate Braille on the back of his hands, disappearing beneath the cuffs of the deep navy shirt he wore. Watching him, she took pity of his discomfort, pulling him to stand up and follow on onto the soft rug, settling down onto it like a child. He mirrored her actions, bemused, as she sat and patted the space behind her back.

"What's gotten into you?"

She cleared her throat, matter-of-factly. "Well, bloody psychiatrist was on about how maybe if we just…talked a bit an' didn't have to worry about eye contact, we might…feel better." She felt him settle against her back and tall bastard that he was, it allowed her to lean her head against his shoulder-blade, no problem. "I just… I _know_ me being a mess has been bloody hard for you and I want you to… _know_ that I know that." She knew she was rambling, but she just couldn't seem to stop herself; once she allowed her mouth to run it usually ran away with her.

"Molly––," he began, trying immediately to turn to touch her.

"––No, Charles, _please_ listen." She settled down again, taking a breath to embolden herself. "Doctor Kahn said somethin' about how…we can't keep doin' this, keep…making ourselves feel _shit_ over things we ain't ever gonna control – like each other's feelings – for a start." She reached around behind her and found his hand. "I can tell when you're pretending to be okay, Charles, and… I don't want you to try and hide yourself from me."

For a long moment, he was quiet. "You know I don't mean to––," he struggled, his voice small.

"––Yeah, course!" she whispered light-heartedly, "It's part of who you are, you're a bloody Rupert!"

" _Oi_!"

She giggled, knowing he was pretending to take offence at the term. "I just… _need_ you to know that, from now on, I'm _okay_ unless I say I'm not. That's my promise to you. No more wondering, no more walkin' on egg-shells… I _promise_ to try and be open about all my shit… _if_ you are, too, but only if you realise that none of it is your responsibility. I'm tellin' you things when I do because I just want a cuddle or something, _not_ because I expect you to… _fix_ things. An' I know it's in your nature to want to fix things, but you can't and won't fix this." Her chest hurt with the pressure of the breath she had been holding, the words rushing out of her in one fail swoop. In his quiet, she peeped at him over her shoulder and found he was smiling wistfully, as though enlightened.

" _Okay_ ," he replied, firmly, turning around so he could reach to cradle her face in both his hands. Sat on the floor, she raked her eyes over him and was moved to see how relieved he looked.

"Just ' _okay_ '?" Molly sighed, a touch exasperated, reaching to hold his face and mirror his body language. " _Please_ , Charles," she coaxed tenderly, stroking his stubbled cheeks. "Talk to me. Do you get what I'm on about?" She sat up on her knees and pressured her forehead to his, urging him to open up. "What's goin' on in that handsome, curly li'le head?"

He gave in and met her eye, smiling somewhat begrudgingly at that last part. She wriggled her eyebrows at him, willing him with her goofy facial expressions to smile properly again. A chuckle caught in his throat as he relaxed finally under her touch.

"These days, I worry about you from the minute I wake up," he whispered, softly. His eyes seemed to shine with the kind of shame and self consciousness that she remembered from their early cracks in their relationship, when they had been so torn up over Smurf, but too ashamed to admit it. "I mean, when you were on tour, of course I was secretly torn up inside, but I trusted you to know what you were doing, trusted the Army to protect you when I couldn't, but _now_? It's…" He threw back his head with a soft sigh of exasperation – she watched his Adam's apple bob as he was evidently trying to keep in his emotions. Suddenly he sat with his back to her again, hiding his emotion from her. "Now, I'm questioning everything. The Army couldn't protect you when you needed it from your own Captain… _I couldn't_ protect you––."

Molly gulped, feeling a lump rise in her thought as she heard his voice crack. " _Charles––,_ " she interrupted tightly, trying to turn around to grab his hand but he stopped her.

"I know, I _know_ it's irrational, Molly," he whispered, his voice coming stronger again. "But I can't help it, it's how I feel."

She closed her eyes, the words striking a chord.

"It's eating away at me, watching you suffer…" he continued, "and I just hate that I can't take any of this pain away from you."

"You know…you _can,_ actually," she whispered, turning round to hold him again, stroking over his lower lip with the pad of her thumb the way he often did to her. His eyes searched hers questioningly, but she kept her game plan under wraps as she closed the distance between them until they were nose to nose. His arm curled right around her waist to keep her pressed against him. She pressed her lips to his cautiously, once, twice, three times, peeping through her lashes to watch his expression. He was solid under her hands as though fraught with tension and she found herself smoothing her palms over his face. " _Only_ you can, Charles," she whispered. "You 'ave to trust me to know me' own body, to tell you when I need time… but also to tell you when I _know_ what I want." She took his hand from her face and pushed it down over the curve of her breast to press against her thudding heart as it raced beneath the silk of her dress. _"Do_ you trust me?"

His response was instantaneous. "Yes. Yes, you _know_ I do."

"Well, good," she simpered, running her pointer finger up his abdomen from the waistband of his trousers up to where her breast touched his chest. "Because I know now." Her eye contact implored him to listen. "I bloody need you and that's about it."

She could see he daren't read into what she was saying to him, making little move of his own other than continuing to hold her against him. She sighed, realising she was going to have to be blunt after all. "Bloody kiss me, then!"

Finally, he laughed and instigated a kiss of his own, one that was formed of closed mouth smiles. She went to chase his kiss, pulling him down to her, and thankfully he followed, allowing her to take control. She gripped his hair between his fingers as he made a sound of desire in the back of his throat, a sound which made her stomach jolt with desire. She pulled back enough to look at him, a smirk on her lips as his breath with already becoming laboured and his eyes hooded as he couldn't keep from looking down at her lips.

"C'mere," she murmured authoritatively, pulling him up with her into the candle-lit bedroom. He was looking a little shell-shocked, which amused her, as he placed him opposite her at the foot of the bed, (their leftover food forgotten). He was, after all, used to being the one in charge.

She gazed over the sight of him in his suit, thinking in the back of her mind what a shame it was that he may about to take it off him when he looked so delicious in it.

He looked back at her with his warm eyes, his usual confidence returning.

"What do you want from me, Mrs. James?" His question was a light one, as though he's trying not to laugh, but she had every intention of making this no laughing matter. Slowly, attempting to be nonchalant, she sunk herself down onto the high mattress, one leg folded over the other in her best attempt to look elegant, careful to keep her dress straight so as not to give away her commando status.

"Take them clothes off."

He looked somewhat shocked to hear those words, which told Molly he hadn't expected them, his eyebrows raising up towards his hairline. He was looking down at her with a slight squint, as though not believing her true intentions.

" _Unless_ , of course, you don't want to…" she offered, pretending to be as blasé about it as she could, checking her nails.

He immediately took this as a challenge, as she knew he would, never liking to be doubted. He rose his chin in defiance as he began unbuttoning the second button at his collar, then the third, never once taking his eyes off hers as he did so. Music crooned in the background, soft doo-wop music she didn't know, but it fitted well with the site of him as he bare skin slowly began revealed to her. She had to keep her breathing in check as she could feel her heart rate thundering in her chest at the anticipation she had created. Her mouth filled with saliva as his naked chest came into view and he folded the shirt against his chest and, ever the Officer, placed it on the ground rather than ditching it. He then undid his matching navy suit trousers and the swoosh of the zip seemed to punctuate her hammering pulse. As his bare legs, his black briefs, came into view, but her lip to keep herself from making any noise, not wanting to break the delicious tension building between them.

She stood up as he stepped out of his trousers moving so close to him that she could smell his fancy aftershave. With a shaking breath, she reached out with some kind of almost childlike fascination to stroke along the barrier of his underpants, aroused at the sight of the dark trail that travelled down his abdomen and disappeared beneath the cotton.

"Sweetheart," he whispered suddenly, halting her inquisitive fingers with his hand. She rose her eyes to his, momentarily panicked for him to halt her, but found agonising indecision there. She was momentarily worried that he was in actual pain. "Please don't start something we can't finish."

His words were quiet, but it was a true plea that she understood and respected. It was only now that she could see, finally, that he too was suffering, frustrated by their lack of intimacy. She gulped at the intensity in his eyes, almost frightened by it if it weren't for the fact she felt the same desperation on her own shoulders.

"I'm sorry I did that before," she whispered, curling her fingers into his own. "I never meant to egg you on and then cockblock you––."

He snorted at her use of such crass language but in such a sincere voice, kissing her cheek lovingly in response. "––Oh, Molly. I know that."

"But I know what I want now," she whispered more forcefully, smoothing a hand over his skin. "I want to _try_." She reached onto the tips of her toes to hold onto the back of his neck, pleading him with her eyes with a deliberately childish pout. " _Please_?"

The bastard kept her in suspense, pretending to consider her question, before smirking down at her. "Oh, my darling, I'm stood here in my bloody underwear at your direct order," he whispered, kissing between her brows, then down to her nose, then down over her lips. "Do you really think you need to _ask_ me if I want this?"

She flicked her eyes down to his crotch, where, sure enough, there was the beginnings of an evident tent in his briefs that told her of his arousal. Heat rose across the back of her neck at the sight of it and despite the countless times they had been intimate previously. Somehow, seeing evidence that he wanted her still thrilled her.

"Suppose not," she sighed, reaching down to casually smooth a hand over him, making him tense and heave out a breath. His eyes were closed and his nostrils flared and she had to bite her cheek to keep from smirking. She retracted her hand and his eyes opened immediately, searching hers. Her pulse thumped as she, again, dared to challenge him with her eyes.

"G'on, then," she encouraged, eyes dropping to his black underwear.

Consequently, he reached down and confidently, though agonisingly slowly, pushed the elastic down passed his hips revealing himself to her with enviable confidence.

"What's your mission, Mrs. James?"

She stopped backward enough to watch him, her mouth again filled with saliva, and she took the opportunity to admire his physicality. It had been weeks since she'd seem him nude properly, and months since he had been naked for her so intimately, so she found herself intrigued to look at him, taking in the details she'd forgotten. Her face was hot as he watched her watching him, stepping out of his boxers entirely. She stood up in a slow, guarded approach, reaching her searching fingers out to ghost his skin again, delicately tracing the puckered, discoloured scar on his abdomen in the low, candle-light. His eyes followed her closely, barely breathing.

"I want to see you." She whispered, raising her eyes to meet his despite their rather stark height difference, with her being barefoot and all. He rose an eyebrow at her bold statement, but the expression of smugness disappeared the moment her fingers began their ghostly, bold path from the scar, over the point of his hipbone and around over onto his buttock as she began a slow circling of him. She heard his breath rushed from his lungs as her gentle touch rose a shudder out of him. His glutes were firm under her touch as she admired his behind, testament to his ever-active life. Her fingertips continued to move, up the intricacies of his spine and across his ribs, finally returning to their normal colour, until she reached his front again. His chest heaved as her fingers skimmed over his nipple, before descending in the slight delve in the centre of his pectorals and down over his firm stomach where the hairs of his enticing snail trial began. It was only then that she allowed herself to drop her eyes to really take in his most private anatomy, expecting to feel anxious and nervous to come face to face with his arousal after all that had happened. What surprised her was that she didn't feel anxious, she didn't see memories of a monster when she looked at him, she didn't see a sexual weapon… she just saw Charles.

Suddenly, she couldn't help but smile, then grin, trying to repress a cackle at her own idiocy. She suddenly felt so very utterly ridiculous for ever being so frightened of a penis.

"For fucks sake, I'm stood here with my cock out for you and you're _laughing?_ What the bloody hell is so funny?"

She couldn't help herself, she really _did_ cackle then, realising too late how her lack of communication of her thoughts must have looked to him from the outside, as she stood there stifling cackles while looking at his willy – also ruining the intense moment she herself had created.

His tone was defensive and despite how he tried to make a joke of it, she knew his pride was now, no doubt, wounded, as he had allowed himself to be, both literally and figuratively, laid bare to her. Immediately, she rushed to stifle her own humour and rescue the situation.

"Oh, no – shit, Charlie, no," she whimpered sympathetically as she tried to get her laughing under control. "It's not that, it's just––." She grappled to reach up and put her hands on his face, imploring him to understand. "I _thought_ I'd be scared, I _thought_ I'd be fragged, _triggered––_ whatever––when I was faced with a naked bloke again, with… _that,_ " she motioned to his penis. "But…" A fresh wave of shame rolled through her as she felt foolish even just saying the words aloud. "But just then, I looked at _you,_ that, and I…" She gulped down her bashfulness and looked back between his face, motioning to him nakedness. "I just thought, 'Wait, I… know _you!'._ " She hid her cheeks, which were hot again, with her hands as she continued shake her head at herself in disbelief. " _You're_ not _scary_ – you're not like him at all." She stood back a little, putting space between them again. "I _know_ you."

He took this in for a moment, no longer looking defensive as he smiled at her in the wistful way he did whenever she surprised him. He moved forward and closed the gap between them despite his being naked and her being clothed.

"I promise I weren't laughing at you," she finished, her voice small and apologetic like a child. Who was worried they might be in trouble. "Just at the idea that I ever thought for a minute your cock would be scary."

His chuckled darkly, giving her a mocking look of derision. "Good to know, Dawes." An expression of hesitation crossed her his face, but he seemed to push passed it. "I don't blame you – though it doesn't make it any less horrifying to have your wife laughing when you're starkers," he whispered, caressing his lips over her hairline. "You're right though – you do know me." His hands came to hold her forearms, her hands, pulling her to him. "Better than _anyone_." She relinquished in the feeling of his arms entirely around her, his body hot and solid against the length of hers, accepting the worshipping of his kisses across her face. "I'm no threat to you, Molly, I swear to you."

She sighed has his lips slipped over the curl of her jaw and left kisses on her neck. "I know." Again, suddenly the idea was incredibly funny, and she smiled wide with her eyes to the ceiling as she laughed a little. "I know you're not, you _nut-bar_." Suddenly, she remembered she hadn't finished having her fun, so she backed up and tutted at him with a pout. "Wait! I weren't done looking at you!" She reached down and grazed him then, touching him intimately for the first time since before that god-awful tour. It felt strange to have waited so long, and wonderfully familiar to have the heat of him under her fingers. Immediately, he closed his eyes and his nostrils flared again as he seemed to be restraining himself and she felt intense sympathy for him, realising once again just how long he had now been celibate for, thanks to her trauma.

It was strangely fascinating for Molly, more than it possibly should be for a married woman, more than she would have expected, to watch such masculine desire playing out on his face so plainly after all this time. Now, it meant something brand new in her mind when she saw it – the way his lower lip trapped between his teeth to keep from making any sound the moment her palm touched him. She looked down at his anatomy, considering, not for the first time, how blessed he was in the penis department, as she had seen many an ugly penis throughout her, rather unsavoury, teenage escapades.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he whispered suddenly, watching her as she studied his body. He looked at her with a look of slight worry in his eyes, tension creating as furrow between his brow, evidently anxious for her to be open and communicative – as she had promised.

She contemplated lying to him, considering that the truth was blunt, but she opted for the truth in the end, her tone soft and, she hoped, seductive. "Just how 'andsome you are."

He was considerably hard by now under the weight of her curious, desirable eyes and the gentle touch of her hand. At the feeling of it, she was suddenly faced with a jump cut of hot, thrilling memories, of all the times he had brought her pleasure through the use of his body.

His smile was one of those, rare shy and subtle kinds that he didn't wear often and it made her feel all squirmy inside, pleased with herself. Backing up, she used the confidence it gave her to propel her movements as she managed to pull away from him long enough to fix him with her eyes. She crowded him and surprisingly, unlike the Charles of even a few months ago who would have met her stride for stride with a smug on his face, he sunk backward and onto the mattress. This should have made her feel smug, she supposed, but instead she just felt a little unsure.

Placing her hands on either side of his face, her pulse thumped as he gazed up at her from beneath his long, dark lashes, feeling emotional to see him look at her without any expectation in his eyes.

"What do you want?" She asked him expectantly, her tone surprising her as it didn't sound at all seductive to her own ears, but rather compliant and unsure. She didn't know why she asking him, or exactly _why_ she felt the need to ask his permission, but still, she found she couldn't say anything.

He bulked, a confused frown reappearing across his features. "What about what _you_ want?"

She swallowed and stalled, realising she had been afraid to answer that question…because she hadn't the foggiest idea, other than the fact she knew she wanted to get better, to move on.

"I meant it, you know," he implored, tenderly curling her wrists with his hands. "Tonight is for _you_. We don't have to do this…"

Something about his passive compliance made her impatient, which she didn't understand. He was saying all the right things, and yet here was was, _wanting_ him to tell her what to do…to take the decision away from her.

She freed her hands from his, simmering impatience making her rigid and quiet, and moved her hands to the tie around her waist that was keeping the fluid silk of her dress together, pulling it loose in one swift motion. It was only then, when he set eyes on her, and her lack of expected undergarments, she felt the irritation within her ebb way, replaced by a drive she couldn't put her finger on. She supposed maybe it was just what desire felt like.

" _Jesus_ , Molly," he groaned, rolling his eyes until they closed and tightening his fists into the sheets either side of his thighs, evidently not expecting her sudden nudity. They didn't stay closed of course, as he immediately seemed to want to look at her again. He didn't move, just sat looking up at her from under hooded eyes, the whisky colour of them warming her all over.

She inched toward him, beginning to feel worried at his lack of interaction. She knew, deep down, that she was being paranoid, that just because he wasn't launching himself at her, it didn't mean he didn't want her anymore… But, still, the worry lingered. She reached out held his face again, imploring him to listen.

"Please, Charles, I meant it. I want to try. I just, I don't want to have to be the one making all the decisions." She pushed a hand into his hair as though to anchor herself to him as she leaned her face down to rest against his hairline. "It can't be all up to me, please, I just… _need_ to forget. Help me forget."

She felt nervous under his gaze as he looked right up at her, having all-but forgotten what it was like to stand bare before him – that is, until he closed the gap between them and pressed his lips to hers, delicate and affirming.

"We'll need a word," he whispered, reaching up to ghost a stray strand out hair away from her face. "If you want to stop, at any time, just say 'retreat', okay?"

She nodded, just barely, suddenly very uncharacteristically nervous.

"I need to hear you say you'll use it," he whispered, his tone reminding her of the way he spoke to new recruits with his most serious Captain face. "Promise me, Molly."

She kissed him to hide the colour that had risen on her cheeks, her words a ghost of ` whisper over his lips. "Yeah. Promise."

She stood up straight and her breastbone at his head-height, just below her breasts and he pulled back enough to roam his eyes over her. "Okay," he whispered, a sense of finality in his voice, implying a done-deal. Only then did she notice the change in him, the weight of his worries for her lifted somewhat from his shoulders.


End file.
